Exit Blood (Barefield Book 2)

by Trey R. Barker

  The whip at my feet, I sat against the wall. “Blood on my hands.”

  We both glanced at my hands. They glistened in the dim morning light.

  “And sugar on my lips.”

  “Monea?”

  “Naw, man, donuts.”

  “I’m getting blood on my hands and you’re getting donuts?”

  “Ain’t real blood,” Cope said.

  “I was blooding it out.”

  “Yeah, well, I saw that coming, ‘s why I left. Cain’t hardly stand to watch a man blood himself. Hurts my balls to watch it.” He shrugged. “Besides, y’all’s own blood ain’t real blood...cain’t be spilled blood if it comes outta your veins and you done it yourself. Real blood gushes outta somebody else.”

  I held up my right hand. Blood covered it like ink. “Fagan.”

  “What?”

  “He came here, demanded the money.”

  “Guess y’all spent more time beating than talking, huh?”

  Even thinking about it now, my mouth was dry, though I wasn’t really surprised. “He pulled a gun on me.”

  “No shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shoot y’all?”

  I held my hands out. “Don’t think so. Don’t feel shot.”

  “Well no, ’cause y’all all hepped up from beating y’all’self.” Cope nodded, sat heavily against the wall. “So I guess you have seen some real blood.”

  “Kurston’s, too.” I paused. “You ever seen any?”

  “Fifteen years old, boy,” Cope said. His voice dropped, almost lost in the garage.

  “Your cousin,” I said. “You rode your bike.”

  “Twenty miles I rode that fucking bike, Darcy. Twenty there, twenty back.”

  “Just to kill your cousin?”

  “I didn’t kill my cousin.” He paused. “Went and made sure my cousin didn’t have no daddy.”

  “Your uncle?”

  The old man nodded.

  “No daddy,” I said. “Like you.”

  “Rode that bike and Uncle Stevie was there working on his lawn. Big fucking green lawn. Always worked on it. He was playing with the lawn mower, trying to get it started. Lawn mower don’t start...that kind of thing drive most men nutty, but didn’t bother him. He just kept trying. Pull that cord, adjust a little something, and pull again. Over and over. Seemed pretty peaceful doing it

  “My cousin and his mama were gone, but it wouldn’t matter if they’d been there. I’d’a just killed them, too.”

  Cope wiped his skinny hand, fingers nearly ringless, across his face, took a deep breath.

  “I got a hammer outta the garage. Hanging right there on his peg board, right inside its white outline. Came out and put the claw end into his head ’bout forty-million times. He heard me coming and maybe saw me the first time, but that was it. Closed his eyes up good and tight while I finished my business.”

  My mouth was dry, bone-dry, as withered and blown away as desert scrub. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, my teeth ached and as much as I didn’t want it, I could feel that hammer tearing into my head over and over.

  “I ain’t ever gonna forget the sound of his skull splitting open.”

  “Like the whip? Splitting your back open?”

  Cope shook his head. “Ritualizing sounds wet. Hitting him sounded dry as me hammering on wallboard.” He shrugged. “I went kill crazy, White-Boy Darcy. Ain’t nothing to it but that. Went kill crazy, then got on that Schwinn and rode twenty miles home to Grands’ house. Stole his car and ain’t never stopped running.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  Cope sighed. “Yeah.”

  An early morning breeze worked its way through the open door. A second later, it blew through the industrial fan stuck in the far wall. The blade came to life, turned slowly. Cope nodded at the squeak.

  “The bike I rode squeaked like that when I was going home. Not when I was going to do murder, but after I’d done it. Not sure why. But what I remember most? He never let go of the pull cord. Fighting me with one hand and keeping hold of that fucking pull cord with the other.”

  “Why your cousin? Why kill his father?”

  “Been trying to answer that for fifty-two years. Been trying to wash that blood off my soul every day of every one of those years, too.”

  “I’ll be doing the same,” I said. “Kurston’s blood.”

  Cope shook his head. “No, y’all ain’t gonna hafta worry about that.”

  “What?”

  It didn’t fit, this old black man’s grin. With the story still hanging between us like a fresh, bloody carcass, his grin just didn’t fit.

  “Made me some calls.” Cope’s voice dropped as he stood. He held an imaginary phone to his ear. “Yes, sir, this is Frances Henning, Barefield Industrial-Times. Got a name yet on that corpse y’all found in the rubble of Val’s Barbershop?”

  “Oh, Elmer DiFranco, what the fuck did you do?”

  “Didn’t see no body, Darcy. When we ran outta that place, I didn’t see no body.” His face had gone deadly serious, his hands tight around my shoulders. “Y’all didn’t kill nobody.”

  Time stopped. Or sure as hell seemed to. For a long sliver of a moment, for a nick of a breath, I exulted in Kurston’s aliveness.

  “What— What, exactly, are you talking about?”

  “Fucked him right up, me demanding that name. First words outta my mouth. That ol’ boy, some flunkie cop they stuck in the press room, wasn’t expecting it. Surprised his ass into telling me the truth. Weren’t no body, he said. Asked him was he sure and then he got official. Said no comment until it’s all said and done. Then he hung up.”

  For a second time, I realized I hadn’t killed my father. For a second time, relief scalded my blood, burned me with its intensity. And for a second time, I asked the question.

  “If my father’s not dead, where is he?”

  “Y’all ask that question a lot, White-Boy Darcy.”

  “What can I say? I put the fun back in dysfunctional.”

  “Y’all got an answer?”

  With a shrug, I grabbed my whip and headed for the motorcycle. “Nope.”

  Four Hours, Fifty-Eight Minutes Ago

  I clenched my fists when I saw the porch.

  “The fucking place is lousy with cops,” Cope had said.

  “Yeah. Thought it might be.” I’d known those cops would go undercover—orders of the brass that had suspended Kurston. Undercover and trying desperately to blend in, waiting for Kurston or me to come back, to sit their ass on that porch, have a sip of tea or lemonade or a blast of whiskey.

  I chuckled. Those guys were cops through and through. Just like when Kurston tried to go undercover. There was just something that said cop some swivel of head or hip, some invisible grease stain on their necktie.

  “They sticking out like a hard dick at a lesbian convention,” Cope had whispered.

  Chances were good they’d been there since the flying bullets and burning dope wagon at Johnny’s. Everyone in the place had known both Kurston and me. They were all friends, but they had more loyalty to Johnny than Kurston. Cops came around, he and Kurston’s name rolled off those lips pretty damn quick.

  “Ain’t here, boy,” Cope had said. “Best be gettin’ on outta here.”

  We’d already been to what was left of Val’s. We had hidden behind an old, long since shuttered, hot dog stand that was directly across old Highway 80 from the barbershop. A four-lane highway on the edge of town, then the Union Pacific tracks, then Val’s parking lot and the remains of his shop. Firemen and arson investigators and a handful of detectives I recognized moved through the still-smoking rubble, sifting and retrieving and cataloging.

  “Why we here?” Cope had asked. “I told you, he ain’t there.”

  But I had wanted to make sure, had wanted to be certain. Seeing the detectives, Kurston’s friends, here rather than somewhere else—the hospital or the morgue with the M.E. or downtown throwing rapid fire questions at Kurston—to
ld me everything I needed.

  “He wasn’t here.”

  “Done told you that, boy.”

  I had shaken my head. “No, not he isn’t here. He wasn’t here. When the cops and firemen arrived, he wasn’t here. They never saw him.”

  “How y’all know that?”

  With a quick nod toward the ruins, I said, “Because the detectives are here, not somewhere else.”

  “He got other places?”

  Eventually, when one of the detectives, his suit jacket off and spots under each arm, seemed to stare directly at us, I nodded. “Yeah.”

  There was one more place, but the thought of going there made me want to sit on the street and whimper like a used up junky.

  Four-And-A-Half Hours Ago

  Johnny’s Barbeque

  Barefield, Texas

  The stains were gone, but the holes were still there.

  “Ain’t gonna patch it, neither,” a thin man said. His name was Royal and he stood in the middle of the room, wiping tables down and refilling ketchup and mustard bottles. “Rose says we gonna leave it. A memorial.”

  “A shrine,” I said. He pointed toward the back of the kitchen. “Like that one?”

  “Damn tootin’,” Royal said. “Just like we did when Johnny’s daddy got shot.”

  Cope tilted his head.

  I nodded. “Got wasted by a KKK Grand Wizard who thought he had whistled at his daughter.”

  “Quite a town y’all got here, White-Boy Darcy.”

  “Listen, Royal, I was wondering if you’ve seen Kurston. I—Shit. I—” I hesitated.

  “He lost his daddy last night,” Cope offered.

  Royal glanced toward the kitchen. “Lost your daddy? That’s a bad night.”

  “I’ve had worse.”

  A slow nod rolled through the man’s head. “I ‘spect that’s true. I haven’t seen him in here since Johnny got killed, but I’m not always around. I can tell you this.” His eyes darted back at the kitchen once more. “Get your head ready, ’cause we got a package here this morning for you and Rose ain’t any too happy about it.”

  “A package? What—”

  Rose burst from the kitchen, a giant knife in one hand, a slab of beef in the other. She headed straight for me. Cope backed up a step. “’Bout damn time you got here. I’m supposed to keep this shit here forever, waiting on you?”

  “What shit?” My collar was tight.

  She stopped, took a deep breath. Her face shuddered, her posture slouched. Her hand grabbed at the edge of the counter to steady herself.

  “Rose?” I took a step toward her, until she waved me away.

  “Don’t pay me no mind,” she said, instantly as sweet as she had been blazing seconds earlier. “I’m a little crazy right now.”

  “Now?” Royal said.

  “Shut the F up ‘afore I gut you like a trout.”

  Behind her, Royal grinned, but kept his mouth snapped nice and tight.

  “I’m real sorry about Johnny, Rose,” I said.

  “Yeah, me, too,” Cope said. “Only had me a little taste of him, but he was good, I could tell that right off.”

  “Thanks, Darcy. Thanks...uh...whoever.”

  “Cope,” he said with a grin. “I’m’a friend of Darcy’s.”

  “Yeah, well, we all have our problems, don’t we?”

  The old man tossed a look at me. “I like this one much as the other one.”

  “Anyway, I’m sorry it happened.” I squeezed her hand.

  “Ain’t your fault, Darcy. Ain’t your daddy’s fault either.”

  “Sometimes stuff just happens,” Royal said.

  “Ain’t just stuff, Royal,” Rose snapped. Her hard eyes turned to me. “You tell that motherfucking judge. He ever come back here, I’ll kill him myself. He ever send one’a his drivers here, I’ll kill him myself. He ever think about this place, I’ll kill him my own self.”

  “Uh...I don’t...I don’t know the man.”

  “I seen’t your daddy talking to him. I know what’s what.”

  Rose and Johnny hadn’t been married, or even lovers that I knew, but they had been as bound together as Kurston and Mama.

  “Rose, you got a package for me? It come from Kurston?”

  With a shake of her head, she ducked behind the counter. “I haven’t seen Kurston since. How’s he doing?”

  “Shot wasn’t too bad. We got him fixed up. He’s fine.”

  “Good,” she said.

  “So he hasn’t been here? Maybe late last night or early this morning? Talking about Val’s?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Val’s? You guys get Val killed, too?”

  I shoved an ill-fitting smile on my face. “Val’s on vacation.”

  “Small miracle, I guess.” She sighed. “Sorry, that was shitty. I’m feeling pretty shitty these days.”

  “You and me both,” I said.

  “I ain’t seen him, but yeah, I got a package this morning. Some woman brought it to the front door a’fore we were even open. Had your name on it.” She handed me one of their take-out bags.

  I reached inside, pulled out the pendant. My breath stopped. “Son of a bitch.”

  “That y’all’s thing?”

  A nod, nothing more.

  I half expected Fagan to burst out of the shadows, a tight grin on his face, a gun in one hand, a demand for money on his lips.

  “It’s done,” I said.

  “Ain’t sure what you’re talking about,” Rose said. “But this here ain’t done yet.” She led them toward the patio. “Woman said to leave everything ’til you saw it.”

  “Or what?” Darcy asked.

  “Didn’t need to gimme no threat, I understood her well enough. Skinny little bitch scared me to death.”

  Something deep inside my tightened up as I and Cope and Royal followed Rose to the patio.

  “Don’t like where this is going, White-Boy Darcy.”

  “Huh,” Royal said. “Just wait.”

  Rose shoved the door open and I and Cope both stepped out.

  Faces. Tens of faces.

  “Sweet Christ on a shingle.” My voice dried in my throat.

  “I’m’a let that one go, boy.” Cope’s voice, too sounded as though it had dried, as though it had shriveled away to nothing.

  Each face stared out from the middle of a plate, surrounded by names, by birth and death dates, by quotes and achievements. And over each face, a giant question mark in black permanent marker.

  “What is all that shit?” Rose asked. “And how the fuck she get it on my patio without me seeing nothing?”

  “Petunia.”

  Fagan hadn’t brought the pendant. Petunia had, which meant she and Fagan were together. Not by fucking choice, you can bank on that, I thought. If they were together, then Fagan and the pendant had gotten snatched up.

  “Memorial plates,” Cope said.

  “What?”

  Nixon. LBJ. Billie Holliday. Greta Garbo. Reagan. Elvis. Dale Earnhardt. Edgar Allen Poe. Washington. Lincoln.

  “Ever’one of those plates got somebody dead on it.”

  “She has Fagan.”

  “Yep.”

  “She wants the engraving plates.”

  “Yep.”

  I took a deep breath. “Not my problem.” I said it as firmly as I could, as strong as my shaking hands and quivering voice, would allow. I held up the necklace. “This is my problem. This is all I give a shit about. This is Kurston’s. I get it to him and I’m done.”

  “Hah.” Cope coughed out a chuckle. “Whatever, boy, whatever. Y’all ain’t ever gonna be done, boy, so get that outta your head.”

  “Yes, I am. She can have Fagan.”

  He’s not what I wanted. He’s not my father, not spiritually, not emotionally. He’s not who I thought he was.

  But he is exactly who they told me he was.

  “I don’t give a shit, Cope.”

  “Bullshit. Y’all care, just ain’t got the balls to say it.”

 
; “I do not, Cope, this isn’t about Fagan, never has been.”

  “Always has been.” Cope stepped on a plate, cracked it. “This always been about the sperm-donor. Y’all ain’t never got him outta your system. Came back here to find him.”

  “I thought he was dead.”

  “Physically. Y’all came back here same reason you came into the church when I found y’all on the sidewalk.” Cope stood close to me. “Cain’t stop wondering about all that Fagan blood. Y’all gonna turn out as bad as him?”

  I ground my teeth together, turned away from Cope.

  “‘S why y’all blooding it out. ‘S what got that whip going up down up down. Boy, that blood ain’t ever gonna come out, I been trying to tell you that. That blood is who y’all are. It ain’t all of who you are, but it’s a lot of it.”

  “What’s the rest?”

  “What y’all do with yourself.” He tapped his temple, “What’s going on in here,” and his chest, “And in here. What y’all gonna do with that bad blood.”

  I stood, defensive. “It’s not all bad. I’ve got Mama’s blood, too.”

  “Damn straight you do. But y’all ain’t doing anything with it. And I’ll tell you this, too, boy: Y’all don’t face him, y’all gonna spend the rest of life wondering.”

  A frowned creased my forehead. “Wondering what?”

  “Whether y’all more him...or her.”

  “Pure or evil?”

  A throaty, tired laugh stumbled from Cope. “Ain’t quite that dramatic, but yeah, y’all getting the way I’m drifting.”

  “Sounds like you done drifted off the page,” Rose said.

  “Oooh, ain’t like y’all so much anymore.”

  She laughed. “I got no problem with that, black boy.”

  “Facing him will tell me that?” I asked.

  Cope shrugged. “Not facing him make you wonder forever, won’t it?”

  I walked the patio. Around the tables and chairs, the soda fountain and bus stations. Once. Twice. Four five six times. Cope was probably right, I needed to face my father...fathers. Yet for everything Cope knew, for everything the old man saw and understood, the man would never know how it felt to be abandoned. He would never know how it felt to be without a father by choice. His was gone, had been for years, but it wasn’t his fault. Killed by someone else, taken away from his son by the hand of another.