Sins Of The Father

by James, Harper

  His head rocked sideways from the force of her slap. She drew her arm back to give him another one. He caught her wrist easily, squeezed hard, felt something give. She let out a sharp hiss.

  ‘You’re hurting me.’

  He wanted to say, hurt? Let me show you what hurt is, then take her out back and nail her hand to a table.

  She read his mind.

  ‘It’s not my fault you got involved with that sort of people.’

  ‘Thanks for the support, Lisa.’

  ‘I don’t care if they nail your head to the table next time. It might knock some sense into it.’

  ‘Maybe you want to watch? Because that’s exactly what they’ve got in mind if I don’t give them their money.’

  Her mouth opened. Nothing came out apart from a small squeak. She swallowed hard, trying to keep under control. She failed.

  ‘Their money? You mean my money.’

  He gave her a smug gotcha smile.

  ‘Kevin’s money, daddy’s money, your money, what’s it matter? Everybody’s money except my money. You go and get your nails painted, get a facelift. I was just thinking the other day, it’s almost time for a boob job, they’re sagging a bit. Don’t you worry about me, just trying to keep alive here.’

  It was the boob job crack did it.

  ‘Get out of my fucking house! Now!’

  He had the sense and the pride to keep his thoughts to himself.

  Where am I supposed to go?

  But he couldn’t keep his mouth shut completely.

  ‘There you go again. Your house, your money. And you’ve got the fucking cheek to say I’m the one who’s all me, me, me. You make me sick.’

  Despite how easily he managed to sidestep Frank Hanna’s haymaker—if that’s what really happened—he wasn’t fast enough to dodge the heavy crystal vase that flew through the air and caught him on the side of the head.

  If his head hadn’t been ringing from the impact, or the blood not roaring in his ears from the adrenalin, the front door slamming hard at his back, any of those things, he might have heard a small, tinny laugh coming from his pocket.

  ***

  THAT JUST PROVED IT, Evan thought as he closed the connection. Guillory didn’t know shit from shinola. Hanna’s phone wasn’t at the bottom of some lake, like she said, McIntyre was carrying it around with him.

  He’d joined the conversation at the since I started screwing you behind Kevin’s back point and enjoyed every minute of the rest of it. He’d felt the slap she gave McIntyre resonate all the way down the phone line. He was sure he felt his own face tingle. He had a feeling he’d missed some good stuff at the beginning, but hey-ho, all of it was a bonus. He’d got the gist of it—McIntyre would be twice as desperate now. He’d lost a lot of ground today. If Vasiliev found out Lisa had cut him off, getting his head nailed to a bench would be the least of his problems.

  It was time to kick a man when he was down.

  Chapter 42

  EVAN TRIED HARD TO dig up some sympathy for Hugh McIntyre sitting up in his hospital bed. It wasn’t happening. Guillory’s face told him she wasn’t even trying. A large proportion of McIntyre’s face was covered in thick gauze bandages. In contrast to the crisp white of the bandages, his eyes were black and swollen. A drip was attached to the back of his right hand. On his left hand there was a new dressing, right on the edge, where his little finger should have been.

  Guillory pulled over a chair, sat on it backwards, and leaned towards McIntyre on crossed arms. It was her movie-cop look. Evan knew she practiced it in the mirror at home, the inscrutable face too.

  ‘Nice pajamas, McIntyre,’ she said.

  Evan wasn’t convinced. You wouldn’t catch him wearing that color. Unless she asked him to, of course.

  ‘You want to tell us what made them stop at only one finger?’ she carried on, as Evan turned his head to the side to see if they looked any better from a different angle.

  If McIntyre’s eyes could have bulged, they would have. His swollen lips cracked open a fraction.

  ‘Only?’

  Evan and Guillory smiled at each other. Poor choice of word, perhaps. He’d get over it.

  ‘Sorry, I’m sure one’s bad enough.’

  Evan made a small ahem sound in his throat, almost as if he was embarrassed to ask his next question.

  ‘Did Vasiliev let you keep the finger?’

  McIntyre closed his eyes, laid back on the pillows.

  ‘Just go away.’

  ‘What?’ Guillory said. ‘And take the deputy outside the door with us, you mean?’

  McIntyre’s eyes opened again fast, his body jerking forward.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Tell me,’ Guillory said, ‘how’s it work with these people? What is it? A finger a day? Or does a thumb count as two days?’

  ‘Three,’ Evan said. ‘I’m pretty sure.’

  Guillory gave him a surprised look, then nodded her head, bowed to his greater knowledge.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘you’ve got seven fingers and two thumbs left—’

  ‘Shut up!’ McIntyre hissed.

  Guillory shrugged.

  Only trying to help.

  ‘Tell you what,’ she said, all hint of the fun and games gone from her voice, ‘I’m going to the bathroom. I’ll leave Evan here with you to make sure you’re okay, make sure you don’t bang your hand, anything like that. I’ll tell the deputy not to worry if he hears any shouting ... sorry, screaming.’

  ‘You want to take the newspaper?’ Evan said. ‘In case you’re there a long time.’

  He picked up the newspaper lying on the edge of the bed, held it out to her.

  ‘You don’t mind?’ he said to McIntyre.

  McIntyre looked from one of them to the other, not sure if this was really happening or maybe the nurse made a mistake with his meds.

  ‘No thanks,’ Guillory said. ‘What is it with men needing to take something to read when they go to the bathroom anyway?’

  Evan shook his head, beats me, dropped the paper casually on McIntyre’s hand. McIntyre yelped, more in surprise than pain, drew his hand back.

  ‘Sorry.’

  Guillory stood up and moved away from the bed.

  ‘Actually, I might just pop out for some coffee.’ She looked at McIntyre. ‘You want any? I bet the stuff in here tastes like shit.’

  ‘No!’

  She paused, her face taking on a schoolmarm air of disapproval.

  ‘You mean, no thank you?’

  ‘Manners, McIntyre,’ Evan said, wagging a finger at him. ‘No wonder Vasiliev gets so pissed with you.’

  McIntyre collapsed back into the pillows, closed his eyes again.

  ‘I mean don’t go. Don’t leave me with him.’

  Evan wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or not. He wouldn’t normally be able to deliberately hurt somebody. But McIntyre was a special case after all. He touched his chewed ear automatically. McIntyre saw him do it, tried to push himself further back into the pillows.

  ‘I bet it seems like a lifetime ago,’ Guillory said to Evan. ‘Him biting your ear, I mean. Don’t know what I’d do if someone had done that to me, and I got a chance to—’

  ‘Get even?’

  She nodded, moved away from the bed again.

  ‘Won’t be long.’

  ‘No! I’ll tell you what you want to know.’

  She came back again, a last chance look on her face. Evan was glad it wasn’t directed at him. She sat back down on the chair, straddling it again. So McIntyre knew she was serious.

  ‘Okay. I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.’

  McIntyre stared at her, not knowing where this was going. Evan too.

  ‘I’m going to ask you some questions. Evan here is going to hold your hand ...’

  She kept her eyes on his as Evan wiped his hand on the side of his pants and took hold of his hand. McIntyre let him do it.

  ‘If I think you’re not telling me the truth, Evan’s going to give your
hand a little squeeze. Of course, when I say little, I actually mean really, really hard like he’s trying to break some fingers.’

  McIntyre held his breath.

  ‘You want Evan to show you, so you know what I’m talking about? Show him Evan—’

  ‘No!’

  Guillory smiled at him.

  ‘Only joking. Evan wouldn’t do that.’ She looked up at Evan. ‘Would you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  McIntyre didn’t look convinced.

  ‘Okay,’ Guillory said, ‘let’s start at the beginning. Why don’t you tell us what happened in Frank Hanna’s house?’

  McIntyre started to object. Guillory held up a finger.

  ‘That was your one and only free pass. Next lie, Evan’s gonna squeeze that hand so hard you’ll ... I don’t know what you’ll do but it’s a good thing there’s a plastic sheet on this bed. Now, try again.’

  McIntyre told her the same story he’d told Lisa Stanton, how it had been an accident, Hanna swinging at him and toppling down the stairs. His eyes kept flicking from her face to Evan’s and back again. Evan gave him a tight little smile, winked at him each time their eyes met.

  ‘What were you doing in the house?’

  Evan ran his fingertip over the dressing on McIntyre’s palm, just so he didn’t lose concentration.

  ‘Looking for his will.’

  ‘Did you find it?’

  McIntyre shook his head.

  ‘Why’d you want it?’

  McIntyre took a deep breath. Evan tickled his palm again.

  ‘You know all this already.’

  ‘I know I do. I want to know if you do.’

  ‘To see if he changed it, cut Lisa off.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ Evan said, just for the fun of it.

  ‘Piss off, Buckley.’

  It was a brave thing to say.

  ‘Go on, why don’t you squeeze my hand, see if you can make me scream.’

  Evan thought about it, tried to recall the feel of McIntyre’s teeth ripping into his ear, his boot smashing into his balls as he writhed on the ground. Guillory was watching him intently.

  ‘Evan.’

  The moment passed. Guillory sensed the change in him, turned back to McIntyre.

  ‘It’s okay Mr McIntyre, you don’t have to answer that one. We all know it’s because Hanna doesn’t want his money going to a low-rent douchebag like you.’

  McIntyre wasn’t prepared to try telling her to piss off. Evan reckoned that was a very good call. If the man had demonstrated judgement like that in his business affairs, he wouldn’t be in the mess he was in now.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ Guillory said, ‘is how your friend Mr Vaseline would be happy with you telling him, sorry, I couldn’t find the will. Let’s hope he didn’t change it. He didn’t strike me as the kind of man who’s happy to wait and see.’

  McIntyre was very still, the only sound his breath rasping through his cracked lips.

  ‘And I bet you didn’t tell him about your little spat with Lisa either, did you?’

  McIntyre came off the pillows so fast his hand twisted in Evan’s. He let out a sharp gasp.

  ‘That wasn’t my fault,’ Evan said, grinning at Guillory who was doing her best to keep a straight face.

  ‘Should have dropped Hanna’s phone down a drain,’ Guillory said.

  ‘It was that crack about needing a boob job did it,’ Evan said. ‘Just think what that one nasty little comment might end up costing you.’

  ‘No, Mr Vaseline wouldn’t be very happy to hear you won’t get a penny even if Hanna leaves everything to Lisa,’ Guillory said.

  Evan let go of McIntyre’s hand, folded his arms across his chest. They had a much better hold over McIntyre than the threat of a little bit of pain—little compared to what Vasiliev would do to him.

  ‘Maybe we’ll tell him,’ Evan said and pulled McIntyre’s phone out of his pocket. ‘I’m sure you’ve got his number.’ He stepped away smartly as McIntyre tried to grab the phone, ended up just hurting his hand even more.

  ‘I’ll let Evan find that number,’ Guillory said. ‘Then we’ll get back to the questions.’

  Evan found the number easily enough and burst out laughing. He couldn’t help it, the shock of seeing it there. He showed the phone to Guillory. Her eyebrows lifted. She didn’t smile as she read the word after Vasiliev’s name.

  ‘Bet Vasiliev doesn’t know you’ve got him listed like that,’ Evan said. ‘Okay, let’s give him a call.’

  He hit the green call button.

  McIntyre lunged from his bed, a strangled wail of despair filling the room.

  Evan stepped back and held the phone up. They all heard it ring, then Vasiliev answered. Evan hit the red button. Immediately it rang in his hand. He dropped it back in his pocket, let it go to voicemail.

  ‘Okay, Mr McIntyre,’ Guillory said, ‘why don’t you tell us what you gave your friend there’—she pointed at Evan’s pocket—‘to make him stop at only one little finger.’

  Despite all the threats, McIntyre didn’t say anything. He stared down at his hands resting on the bedcovers, at the cannula sticking out the back of his right hand.

  ‘Five,’ Guillory said.

  Evan got the phone back out, didn’t know why he put it back in the first place, he’d wear out the lining of his jacket at this rate.

  ‘Four.’

  Evan found the name again, read it out under his breath, including the extra word after Vasiliev’s name.

  ‘Three.’

  ‘No!’

  Evan cleared his throat.

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Please.’

  Evan and Guillory shared a look. Is this guy serious?

  ‘One. Call it Evan.’

  ‘I gave him her name,’ McIntyre shrieked.

  It wasn’t what either of them were expecting.

  ‘Who?’ Guillory said first.

  McIntyre stared at his phone in Evan’s hand, at the finger poised above the green button. He dropped his head, his chin on his chest.

  ‘I told him the housekeeper would know where it is. I had to say something. They were going to cut off another finger.’

  Evan caught the phone as it slipped through his fingers, stuffed it into his pocket. He took a step towards the bed. Guillory was there, in his face, in an instant, blocking him. She put a hand on his chest. He was immediately back when he first met her, when they told him about Kevin Stanton’s suicide. She’d put her hand on his chest back then too, to stop him attacking her partner. He looked down at her hand, a hand that he normally felt smacking the back of his head for some wiseass remark.

  McIntyre stared at them, not understanding the implications of his admission, thankful she was between him and Buckley. But Evan and Guillory both understood. Evan pictured Mrs Kitson as she was confronted by Vasiliev and his men, more scared than she had ever been in her life, than she could ever have imagined being.

  They wouldn’t need to nail her hand to a table or cut off her little finger. They might do it for sport anyway. In his mind he saw her faint perhaps, then heard the gabble of words she couldn’t get out fast enough, about the new will, delivered to that nice Mr Buckley. He imagined her remembering the DNA swabs she’d helped Hanna take, volunteering the information, anything to get these men out of her house, out of her life.

  McIntyre couldn’t have dropped them in it better if he’d tried.

  Chapter 43

  IDLE HANDS ARE THE devil’s workshop, so the saying goes. People say it’s a biblical quote but Evan knew that wasn’t true. The phrase had been coined with him in mind and he hadn’t been around nearly that long.

  Time weighed heavily on his hands. There was nothing to do until Sterling Yates got back from Geneva. Anyone would do the same in his position, he told himself as he backed the rental Honda into the disused dirt road a half-mile past Carl Hendricks’ farm. What did Guillory think he was going to do? Sit around the office and do some paper
work? It wasn’t going to happen. He parked the car, fetched a gas camping lamp from the trunk and set off.

  He was more careful this time as he made his way towards the farm. He kept off the road and came in from across the fields in an attempt to slip past the nosy neighbor. The cops wouldn’t swallow the same excuse as last time if they caught him again.

  The back door was still unlocked. He slipped inside and locked it like before, leaving the key half turned in the lock. Something was different in the kitchen. The smell was the same. The dirty dishes that had been in the sink were now stacked in a untidy pile on the counter next to it. That wasn’t it. And it wasn’t the half-chewed bone in the corner by the trash can either.

  He turned a full circle and then it struck him—Floyd’s bow was missing. The realization sent a shiver up his spine. The thing wasn’t just for show, as he’d known all along. Was Floyd out hunting at this very moment? Evan didn’t have long—Floyd might return any minute, his hound dragging their prey across the yard by the neck. He checked the back-door key in the lock one more time, made sure it wasn’t about to fall out, then headed for the basement.

  He lit the camping lamp and made his way down the stairs. Someone had been hard at work. Half the stack of lumber leaning up against the wall had been moved to the side, the floor in front of it disturbed, sawdust and splinters of wood kicked everywhere by feet tramping back and forth.

  Last time, he wrote off this side of the basement as a non-starter. Nobody, psychopathic maniac or anybody else, would want to move a stack of lumber like that to get to whatever might be behind it. It couldn’t be very important. But he needed to find out what was behind it, to put his mind at rest if nothing else.

  After a quarter hour humping lumber, he stopped for a rest. He was hot and sweaty, his throat dry. He ran back up into the house and into the kitchen. No point looking in the fridge, the power was off. He tried the faucet and was rewarded with a sputtering flow of water. He cupped his hands under it, leaned forward to drink. Then stopped. Something caught his eye, a smear of red. He turned off the faucet quickly, wiped his finger in the red smear.

  Was it blood? Or ketchup from the burgers and hotdogs Floyd was living on? He licked his finger. Not ketchup—but that didn’t make it blood. So what if it was. The dog ate raw meat, wouldn’t surprise him if Floyd did too. Still, there’s nothing like the sight of blood where it shouldn’t be to drive an atavistic spike of fear through your gut. He checked the door again and went back downstairs.