The Righteous Path: A Parker County Novel (The Parker County Novels Book 1)

by James D F Hannah

  Cassie shuddered. “I’m just…sorry.”

  That was when it happened. Cassie broke down into tears. She pushed her face into her hands and smothered the sounds. The music—now it was Journey, telling everyone to not stop believin’—did its part, but it wasn’t enough, and Cassie trembled in her chair, sucking in air through her nose, making a huge, wet sound.

  From the bar, a drinker looked toward them, an acknowledgment of something happening, then turned back to watching the game.

  Crash brought her chair around to Cassie and sat close to her. Cassie leaned forward and placed her face on Crash’s shoulder and sobbed harder, taking hold of her shoulders as if she needed to keep herself steady. Crash reached around and patted the teenager on the back, between the shoulder blades, and remained otherwise motionless, just letting her cry.

  The Frosty Mart wasn’t very far from Tully’s, so once Cassie had gone to the bathroom and washed her face off and felt like she seemed somewhat presentable, they drove in that direction. They went through the drive-through, Cassie getting a Whirlwind with chunks of Kit Kat blended with vanilla soft serve, and Crash getting a chocolate-dipped cone, then sat in the empty parking lot, eating their ice cream.

  “Your parents not wondering where you’re at?” Crash said.

  Cassie stirred her ice cream. “Doubtful they’re even home.”

  “Work?”

  Cassie coughed out a noise that could have been a laugh. “Yeah, that’s a big fucking joke right there.” She took a bite of her ice cream. “Mom, she’s not had a job as long as I can remember. Dad, jobs come and go whenever the mines are hiring, and they ain’t hiring.”

  “Where are they then?”

  “I’d guess Mom is at church praying for everyone’s souls, and afterward she’ll get fucked by the preacher because he’s that kind of asshole, and Dad’s somewhere drinking and losing money he doesn’t have at playing cards, too stupid to realize those guys cheat on account they know he’s stupid. It’s a vicious cycle that way.”

  Crash nodded and crunched on a bite of the ice cream shell. She kept her tone cool, even, nonjudgmental. “Siblings?”

  She shook her head. “That’s how Mom ended up going to church all the time, was because she kept having miscarriages. Doctors weren’t even sure I’d make it out. Then after me, she couldn’t get pregnant again, but instead of going to doctors, Mom found Jesus, and Jesus decided that it wasn’t happening again for Donny and Claire Peters.”

  “You’re not a believer?”

  “It’s all bullshit. Mom told me I had to go. She wanted us to look like those happy little families you see on TV shows. But everyone there’s nothing but a hypocrite and a kiss-ass. I watched these snotty brats show up on Sunday morning, acting all high and mighty and pious, no matter what they’d been doing Friday and Saturday night. I couldn’t stomach it, so I said I wasn’t going anymore. Mom threw a shit fit, told me I’d go to hell if I didn’t straighten up my attitude. I told her she should stop bending over and taking it up the ass for Brother Roger.”

  “That go over well?”

  “She slapped me so hard, my ears rang for two days.”

  “This how you and Micki got to be friends? You both being the rebellious types?”

  “I guess. Neither one of us can stand it around here. Everyone’s such a fucking phony, and there’s this idea you got to be or do this certain type of person to fit in, and fuck it all if you’re not willing to do those things.”

  “You mean like the rich kids?”

  Cassie shrugged. “I suppose so. You ever wonder why you look around and it seems like everyone’s poor, no one’s got anything worth shit because everyone’s waiting on a miracle so everyone’ll have jobs again, and everyone’ll stop doing heroin and pills, but none of that matters to this little group. They’ve already got money, and they’ve always got more than everyone else, and they’re just so fucking entitled…”

  Rage built in Cassie’s voice, and the girl’s face reddened. Crash moved her ice cream cone from her right to left hand and reached the free hand over, setting it on Cassie’s forearm. Cassie looked down at it, then up at Crash’s face. Crash smiled from behind the cone. Cassie’s shoulders slumped, and her head dropped and her body shifted forward.

  “I guess I’m a little angry,” Cassie said.

  “That’s fine. We’re all a little angry sometimes. It’s what you do with the anger that counts.”

  “What do you do?”

  Crash pulled her hand back and crunched away more of the chocolate shell. “Eat ice cream. It always helps.”

  Cassie stirred her Whirlwind again. It had melted to an almost-liquid consistency. She licked the spoon clean then lifted the cup to her mouth and chugged away at the contents. She crunched at the little pieces of Kit Kat, smiling the entire time. She didn’t seem like an angry teenager in that moment but like the little kid she maybe had never had the chance to be.

  She dropped the spoon into the empty cup and set it on the dashboard. “What do you want to know about Micki?”

  “Whatever you can tell me. How did she meet Billy McCoy?”

  “Billy plays guitar in this crappy band that plays at a bar over at Nightside. You been there?”

  The Nightside was in Serenity, nestled between a pawn shop and a tattoo parlor. Crash guessed what they said about real estate was true: the three most important things are location, location, location. A fight or two on a weekend night was inevitable, and Crash had straightened out a few drunken assholes who didn’t think she had what it took to put them on their asses.

  “How’d she get in there?” Crash said. “It’s supposed to be twenty-one and over.”

  “She gets in there because they don’t give a fuck. You give the guy at the door an extra ten bucks, he’ll act like that fake ID is real and let you in.”

  “I’m noting that.”

  “I figured you would.”

  “So Micki met Billy one night when the band was playing? What’s the band called?”

  “The Nightside Regulars. Original, right? They’re this shitty cover band, and Micki doesn’t even like that crap, but she said Billy was different. Said he wrote his own songs, and she’d heard them and they’re good. Said he wants to play rock.” She shrugged. “She acts like he’ll make it out of Parker County. Like any of us will ever make it out of here.”

  “You’re not stuck here, you know. You can move away, go to college, start another life somewhere.”

  “Easy for you to say. I ain’t got the grades or the money for that shit.”

  “What do you want to do, then?”

  “Most days, nothing. Other days, I wouldn’t mind dying, because it’d mean I can stop having to think about what I’m supposed to do.” She wiped at her nose with a Frosty Mart napkin. “I wanna go home now.”

  “You sure?”

  Cassie nodded her head. “Yes, please.”

  Crash watched the girl. Cassie stared at her hands as though they were separate from her body and liable to take their own action. She knitted her fingers together and looked at her open palms. For a moment, Crash thought she might be praying.

  Crash started up the cruiser and shifted it into gear.

  16

  Matt drove by Amy’s house and picked up Carl and drove him out to McCluskey Lake. They took Carl’s ride, a panel van Amy and Michael had modified for Carl’s wheelchair. The motor groaned as it raised Carl and deposited him inside, and Carl could wheel to the front and navigate himself into the passenger seat.

  Neither man said much on the drive. When this had started, with Matt taking Carl to the lake, Carl would ask him about cases the department was working. That happened less now. Matt saw the hurt on Carl’s face, so he became slower to talk about it. About work, or Crash, or the world that had moved on after the shooting.

  What they did now was sit in silence, the bobbers on their lines bouncing in the water. Sometimes there would be a bite, and they’d bring home their catch, and Amy wou
ld clean everything up; Rachel refused to have anything to do with it. Amy didn’t like that part of things either, but she indulged this nonsense because of Carl, a reward for his willingness to venture out of the house and away from his own solitude.

  Matt made a mental note of the mileage on the van’s odometer every week. The numbers didn’t move from one week to the next often, which meant he was the only one driving the van. It had come off the lot new and set up so Carl could drive, but he always begged off, said he wasn’t in the mood. Matt had hit a point of not even asking anymore.

  Once they got to the lake, they cruised to the same spot every time, where they could see the sun sink behind the water, the reflection stretching out across the surface, the sky darkening to a deep purple. Matt believed it was the most gorgeous sunset he had ever seen, and he thought that every time he watched it.

  The spot was an even and flat concrete platform near a boat launch. Matt supposed it was intended more for kids and old folks. Even with a good cast, it was close to shore, and the traffic of boats being backed in and out of water threw off much chance of catching anything substantial. Still, it was the best spot for Carl’s wheelchair, so this was where they came.

  Matt felt the weight of the day as he lowered himself into his chair. He had debated calling Carl and canceling. He had even called Rachel and proposed them ordering pizza and watching The Notebook, because Rachel loved the damn movie and it guaranteed him getting laid afterward.

  “You’re fishing with Carl today,” she said.

  “He’ll be okay with not going this week.”

  “You’re fishing with Carl.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, but you keep repeating the same words—”

  “I’m not repeating anything; I’m telling you what you’re doing. Go fish with Carl. He needs this. You need this. And if you don’t smell too much like fish, I’ll still fuck you tonight.”

  Rachel surprised him sometimes.

  Carl flipped the lid on his tackle box and snapped open a plastic tub, and Matt caught a whiff of Velveeta.

  “That stinks like fuck,” Matt said.

  Carl smiled as he pulled a small orange chunk and slipped it onto a hook, molding it to fit before he gave the rod a good cast, hitting the button on the reel and letting the hook fly and drop into the water. He reeled in a little and set the cast.

  “Every time you say that,” Carl said.

  “Because it’s true every time. That stuff warms up in there and smells like death when you open it.”

  “Yet trout love it. And I love trout. So there.”

  “So there.” A beat. “You expecting to catch any trout here?”

  “Maybe with the Velveeta. Doubtful, but we’ve got nothing else to do but try.”

  Matt took a tub of nightcrawlers from his box. The dirt-filled tub smelled of moist earth, which he preferred over Carl’s bait of choice. Matt pulled a worm loose and watched it wiggle between his fingers.

  “Do not overthink baiting a hook.” Carl’s eyes focused on his own line, but the voice pointed in Matt’s direction.

  “I’m not sure what you’re trying to imply, Carl.”

  “Uh-huh. Put the worm on the goddamn hook.”

  Matt did, pushing the barbed end through the front of the worm, then again through its middle section, and one last time through the end. The worm continued to struggle and move on the hook.

  He threw the cast, letting it drop just shy of Carl’s.

  The two men sat there without a word exchanged for several minutes before Carl said, “We should have brought beer.”

  Matt laughed. “Not a good idea on my part.”

  “Oh yeah. I forget about that.”

  “Same. I like it when that happens, forgetting the shit you don’t want to remember.”

  “I’ll have moments, I’m home and watching a movie and I forget about this goddamn chair. Then I have to empty a piss bag, and nothing drags you back to reality like emptying a piss bag.” Carl looked over at Matt. “How’s the home invasion stuff going?”

  He told Carl about the security video, about the latest incident.

  Carl said, “Something smells with that.”

  “I’m sure it’s the Velveeta.”

  “You’ll be laughing out of the other side of your ass when I bring in a nice, fat trout.”

  “How many sides of ass do you think I’ve got?”

  “Based on what I saw of your ass when you got out of the van earlier, not many, but that’s not relevant to the point I’m making about my superior fishing skills. But what stinks is the whole situation you’re investigating. How did the number of assailants drop from four to two? Think they’re chickening out?”

  “Could be. I hope that means someone’s getting scared and decides to talk. But the Guthrie job bullshit has me puzzled.”

  Carl tugged on his line. “You remember that bank holdup? Guthrie National Bank?”

  “Yeah. They never caught those guys.”

  “Nope. Hell of a big deal back then too. Made off with somewhere close to a half-million dollars.”

  “Wasn’t the only job, either. I remember hearing the cops were sure it was the same crew, pulled off three more jobs like that one. Hell, they came back a few weeks later and robbed the same joint again.”

  Carl nodded. “You gotta admire the balls on that. I know I heard they must have totaled out at more than a million dollars.”

  Matt adjusted his line. “Goddammit. I hadn’t even thought of that being it.”

  “All I can come up with offhand that would be ‘the Guthrie job’ since shit doesn’t happen in Guthrie County anyway.”

  “People from Guthrie come to Parker County for excitement.”

  “Things been a lot more exciting in Parker County of late.”

  “I doubt that’s what they’re looking for, excitement-wise.”

  “I don’t judge what people are into. Everyone’s got something different that stiffens their dick.”

  Matt closed his eyes and shook his head. “Phrasing, Carl.”

  “Hey, I’m not talking about me, obviously.” Carl made a noise like he was clearing his throat—when he didn’t need to, but he wanted Matt’s attention. “While we’re on the subject of stiffening dicks, though, Rachel’s right. You should put a baby in her.”

  Matt’s head whipped around to throw a stern gaze at Carl. “That took a sharp and unexpected turn. You and she conspiring on this?”

  “We are not. I just agree with her on this.”

  “How’s me getting her pregnant going to help anything?”

  “Because the brass tacks of things are this: if you die, she’s alone. You don’t even know the world of grief that woman will carry on her shoulders. Give her a baby and let her at least have something she can transfer her love and time and affection to when she’s gotten done burying you.”

  “I was leaning toward cremation, not that you care.”

  “Get shot into space or have a Viking funeral, I don’t give a fuck, because this isn’t about you, it’s about her. Make the situation about you, then you’re being a selfish asshole.”

  “I’m dying. How’s that not about me?”

  “I’m not talking about you dying; I’m talking about what’s left when you’re dead.”

  “And I appreciate the sentiment. So then, as your friend, can I tell you to go back to physical therapy?”

  “You can but I doubt I’ll listen to you.”

  “There’s a duplicity in you telling me what to do, but you won’t listen to my advice.”

  “Because your advice is pointless, and you’re a selfish asshole. Physical therapy won’t change my situation.”

  “You’re so sure?”

  “Yes, Matt, I am. You want to know how often I hear this from Amy? Every goddamn day. Everyone’s got an opinion on what’s best for me. Maybe sometime, one of you assholes stops to consider what the fuck I’m dealing with, and that perhaps I have an inkling of what works for me.�
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  “And maybe that’s what I’m doing with Rachel and her wanting a baby. Maybe I don’t want to leave her with a constant reminder of me whose ass she’ll have to wipe and clean up its puke and comfort when the thing cries and send off to school and watch grow up and break her heart a dozen times a day. Maybe the greatest gift I can give her is to die and let her move on with her life, rather than wake up every day with this totem to her dead husband who needs breakfast and clean laundry. What could be the best for you and I both is to stop trying to tell the other one how to live and die, and hope for the best in both cases, whatever the fuck that might be.”

  Both men sat for a moment.

  Carl stared out across the water. A hawk skimmed across the surface, looking for dinner. “Goddamn, but that escalated.”

  “It did. We might both be assholes.”

  “We are. That’s established fact.”

  17

  The Nightside was quiet for a Friday night. The band playing “Gimme Three Steps” was audible down the street as Crash parked. She drove her own vehicle: a 1979 Toyota pickup, faded green and pitted with so much rust it looked as though a heavy rain would disintegrate the thing.

  The bouncer at the door was a slab of flab with a shaved head and eyes pushed so far into an oversized face Crash wasn’t sure he could see anything. He wore a black T-shirt and shorts and balanced on a stool almost obscured by his mass. He seemed to recognize Crash on sight, even though she was out of uniform in jeans and a plain green T-shirt. He went through the motions of checking her driver’s license.

  “Nothing going on tonight,” he said as he handed Crash back her ID.

  “Came to listen to the band.”

  “I hear ’em three nights a week. They suck.”

  “Someone said it takes ten thousand hours to master any skill.”

  “Let ’em spend it somewhere I don’t have to listen to them. Wait until you hear what they do to Nickelback.”

  “Whatever that is, it’s bound to be an improvement.”

  The stage for the band was pushed toward one end of the bar. A banner hanging from the wall behind them proclaimed “The Nightside Regulars.” All four members looked old enough to know better than to be playing in a cover band. The lead singer mumbled the lyrics of “Paradise City.” The bassist thumped along, looking bored with the entire process. The guitarist had deep intensity cut into his face as he struggled through the song as if trying to remember the chords. The drummer pounded along, throwing in a crash on the cymbals to remind everyone he was there.