Exposure

by Susan Andersen

  She peered up at him and shaded her eyes with a hand. "Hey, Elvis."

  He tipped his chin to indicate Gracie. "See you've got yourself a brand new friend." Then he turned to Emma and nodded. "Mrs. Sands."

  "Hello, Sheriff Donnelly," she said cheerfully, wondering if the man ever smiled. "I really do wish you would call me Emma, cher. Mrs. Sands is so formal." Setting the empty oil can on the tarmac at her feet, she stooped to puncture a full one with the pouring spout. Looking up at him, she added for no good reason that she could think of, "Besides, I don't think of myself as a Mrs. Charlie—urn, that was Mr. Sands—died before Gracie was even born." Then she shrugged uncomfortably, wondering why she'd felt compelled to tell him that. "At any rate, it's a title I didn't have much time to get accustomed to."

  Elvis' stomach clenched and he took an involuntary step in her direction before he caught himself.

  Don't be a fool, man; she's just giving you a little general information. Look at her, for Christ's sake. Then go home and take a good look in the mirror.

  A little hand tugged at the knee of his Levies. "Shewiff? How come you don't say hi to me?"

  He looked down at the little girl with the loopy blond curls staring up at him with big brown eyes and felt something melt in his chest. "Hiya kid," he said softly.

  "Hi," she said brightly. "My name is Gwacie, and I'm fwee years owd, you know. One, two, fwee." She ticked out her fingers for him to count, and after he'd nodded and said, "Uh huh," uncomfortably, she held out her arms to him. "Up," she demanded.

  He looked in panic first to her mother and then to Clare, but both women simply returned his look with interested speculation, as if wondering how he'd handle the situation. He turned back to Gracie. "I'm, uh, on duty now," he told her.

  And discovered that excuse cut no ice. "Up!"

  He stooped down and picked her up, carefully scooping his prosthesis under her little butt and placing his hand on her back to keep her steady as he rose to his feet.

  She looked down at the hook that stuck out next to her hip. "Where's yoah hand, Shewiff?"

  "I lost it in an explosion."

  "Oh." Experimentally, she poked at the hook with her little fingers and he snapped it opened and closed. Gracie snatched back her hand with a screech, then cautiously reached out to poke at the foreign apparatus once again. Again he snapped the hook open and closed, and jerking her fingers out of harm's way she giggled. She looked up at him. "You funny man," she said on a deep chuckle.

  Elvis could honestly say that wouldn't be the first characteristic most people would come up with to describe him. Tucking his chin into his neck he watched her closely as she occupied herself checking out the bits and pieces pinned to his khaki shirt. She bobbed her torso up and down on her perch as her dimpled fingers explored the grooves on his gleaming badge and then moved on to slip under the epauletlike loops of material on his shoulders. She pulled a pen out of his breast pocket, turned it end for end in examination, and then restored it to the pocket upside down. She moved on to slowly trace a tiny fingernail along the engraving on his name tag.

  "Do you know how to read?" Elvis asked her. What with programs like Sesame Street and stuff, he figured kids these days probably learned that kind of thing pretty young.

  "Uh huh." She skipped her finger along his title, which was etched white into the brown plastic pin, softly punching first Sheriff, then E., then Donnelly. "It say Me . . . Donald's . . . today!"

  A corner of Elvis' mouth tipped up in a crooked smile, exposing several white teeth, and Emma stared. She'd been slowly pouring the new oil into the crankcase and watching him with her daughter, fascinated by the gingerly way he held her and the way his ruined face softened when he looked at her. It occurred to her for the first time that the sheriff had probably been quite a handsome man at one time. Actually, he still was; the livid scar just had a tendency to snag one's attention first. But if one took the time to look beyond that . . . Well. Seeing that one-sided smile now, spare as it was, made muscles deep in her belly clench and release.

  Then she sucked in her breath and held it, for her daughter's attention had locked onto the angry red scar on the sheriff's face. Gracie pressed her shins against Elvis hard stomach and bobbed on his arm a couple more times as she considered it. He continued to hold her as carefully as ever, but he'd gone very still and once again his face was coolly expressionless.

  Finally, Gracie raised a soft little hand to carefully pat the raised scar tissue from zig to zag. "You get owie in a 'splosion, too?"

  "Yeah."

  She peered with concern up into Elvis' electric blue eyes. "Does it hoot?"

  "Not so much any more." And the pain hadn't been the worst of it anyhow. What had really set his teeth on edge was the thick, numb feeling he'd experienced from eye socket to chin before the severed nerves had finally knit back together again. That, and the way people stared at it.

  Placing her little hands on the broad ridge of his khaki-covered shoulders Gracie pressed her shins more firmly into hard abdominal muscle and raised her rump up off his arm. Leaning forward, she gave his cheek, where the scar bisected it, an enthusiastic if slightly damp kiss. She plopped back onto her perch and smiled happily up into Elvis' face. "All bettew," she said. Then she blew a raspberry on his throat just under the angle of his jaw and wriggling, commanded peremptorily, "Down now."

  As he set her gently back onto her feet, for the first time in a pretty lonely life Elvis Donnelly thought he just might be in love.

  * * * * *

  He was trash—or so it was commonly agreed. That Donnelly kid's got bad blood. Elvis had lost count of how many times he'd heard that opinion expressed in one way or another when he was growing up. Enough times for him to try his damnedest to give the rumors some teeth the first seventeen years of his life. Hell, if this little one stop-signal town wanted disreputable, he'd give them disreputable like they'd never seen.

  Which, given his mother's occupation, took a bit of doing. Elvis didn't know who his father was, but his mom . . . ? Well, Nadine Donnelly was Port Flannery's most notorious round-heeled working girl.

  Wasn't a citizen around didn't know about her—and God knew he had to go the extra distance to create more scandal than she'd already provided.

  It was from her that he'd gotten his coloring—his thick black hair, his brilliant blue eyes. She was also the bestower of a name he'd been forced to defend with his fists from the time he was about eight years old until he'd finally gained his full growth—and then it wasn't as if people had suddenly stopped snickering over it. They'd simply began exerting a little care to do their sniggering behind his back instead of to his face, because everybody knew that Elvis Donnelly would be more than happy to throw the first punch.

  The matter of his paternity was a subject of much interest and even more speculation to the islanders. Theories ran rampant. As in any small town, the denizens of Port Flannery loved their gossip, and the sheer range of possibilities in this instance was deliciously lacking in limits. There was only one fly in the ointment; unfortunately it was a beaut. Elvis Donnelly was big, very big, and he'd showed every evidence early on of his ultimate height and muscularity. Who the hell could he have inherited these from?

  His size did nothing to spare him from hearing the conjectures—in the general store, at Ruby's Cafe, even on the streets in the wake of people's passings. Wasn 't no one around these parts could come close to matching that boy for size, they said, few even bothering to whisper, and his mama's only average-tall. So who the hell can his daddy be? It was a conundrum that seemed to occupy entire blocks of more than one person's free time.

  Like many a sparsely populated, self-sufficient society, Flannery Island was class conscious and hierarchical, so Elvis didn't have many friends growing up. And those he did have were on the same lower stratum of the socioeco-nomic chain as he and by popular acclaim were considered trash also.

  Except for Sam Mackey.

  It was an odd pairing: the
rebellious, bound-for-hell son of a prostitute and the Midas-golden only son of one of Port Flannery"s most respectable families. But the two boys met on the first day of kindergarten, hit it off, and as far as they were concerned, that was that. It didn't matter what the adults thought about it. They'd been inseparable ever after.

  It was to Sam that Elvis inevitably went when he found himself locked out of his own house because his mother was "entertaining." Enraged, hurting, he'd climb the tree in the Mackeys' back yard and let himself into Sam's room. The welcome he found there was the only outlet he could count on for the myriad emotions that roiled inside him. Dangerous as a pressure cooker with no safety valve, sometimes Elvis simply holed up for the night, brooding and planning trouble. Sam smuggled him food, talked to him, allowed him to let off steam, and tried to discourage the most reckless of his plans. When Elvis' pain drove him out looking for trouble anyway, Sam generally went along to exert what damage control he could.

  And so it was the night Sheriff John Bragston changed the direction Elvis' life was taking.

  * * * * *

  "C'mon, Elvis; let's go back to my place," Sam suggested, shoving his hands into his jacket's pockets.

  He could see his every breath form an icy, vaporous cloud in front of his face, and stamped his feet in place to keep the circulation going. "This is crazy, man," he grumbled. "I'm freezing my ass off here."

  He was sixteen years old. Granted there weren't many things to do on the island on a Friday night. But there were at least half a dozen warmer things than watching his friend impatiently chuck aside half the stuff in the jumble that comprised the Donnelly tool shed. Losing patience, he finally growled, "What the hell you lookin' for, anyway?"

  "This." Elvis straightened up, hefting a sledgehammer into view.

  Sam's heart sank. "Oh, shit, Elvis, what're you gonna do with that?"

  "Destroy the fucker's car."

  "Nooo." But he could see he was wasting his breath. There was blind determination on Elvis' face and Sam swore roundly. "Dammit, man, trust me on this one," he urged. "This is not a good idea. You don't wanna do this." Ramming his fingers through his blond hair, he followed Elvis out of the tool shed and around the corner of the Donnelly house to where Lee Overmyer had parked his distinctive orange station wagon out of sight of anyone driving past on Emery Road.

  Sam grabbed Elvis by the arm and said with quiet earnestness, "Bragston's gonna throw your ass in jail for this, E. Don't do it."

  Elvis' blue eyes burned like gas flames as he stared down at his friend. "He's got a nice wife and three kids, Sam, and he's in there screwing my mother," he said furiously. "You can bet that tonight he's tcllin' liei, 'Baby, you're the greatest.' " Lips stiff, he added flatly, "Tomorrow he'll guffaw with his buddies and call her a whore." Which was what she was—he knew that's what she was. But still . . .

  "It's either this or kneecap the son of a bitch," he said honestly.

  "Shit." Sam expelled the breath he'd sucked in deep. He let go of his friend's arm. "Destroy the fucker's car," he said in resignation.

  Elvis swung the hammer at the headlights, feeling a rush of savage gratification as, one after the other, they exploded in a hail of noise and shattered glass. He could hear the sudden scramble of feet hitting the floor and raised voices inside his house, but he knew that without backup Overmyer wouldn't come out to confront him. He had six inches and forty pounds on the older man easily, not to mention that he'd relish the opportunity to really mix it up.

  Systematically, Elvis' hammer took out all of the glass in the vehicle; then he started in on the back fender.

  Sheriff Bragston must have been in the neighborhood when the dispatcher forwarded Overmyer's complaint, because in record time lights from the department's car were sweeping the yard as it pulled off the country road into the drive. Gravel crunched beneath its tires and glowing red lights swirled from its roof, illuminating then retreating from the dingy white clapboard siding of Elvis' house.

  Breathing heavily, Elvis dropped his arm to his side and turned to look at Sam who was sitting in the shadows on a tree stump a short distance away. The only distinct feature he could make out was his friend's cigarette glowing red as Sam drew on it. "You'd better take off," he advised him. They both heard the front screen door bang against the side of the house as Lee Overmyer rushed out to greet the sheriff.

  Sam flicked the butt into the yard. "Forget it," he said. "I'm stayin' right here."

  "No, Sam. You're gonna get into trouble, too, and you didn't do anything to deserve it."

  "Big deal; so what else is new? You'll tell him I wasn't involved just like you always do, and eventually he'll let me go." Sam shrugged and gazed up at Elvis. "Like he always does." He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned into the weak pool of illumination that was thrown out by the bulb over the garage door. Tucking his hands into his armpits and slapping his elbows against his side, he hunched his neck into his flipped-up collar. "Jesus, it's cold out here."

  "I mean it, Sam; take off," Elvis insisted urgently. "Bragston's been pretty good about you always being there when someone calls in a complaint about me. But I think some of the folks in my neck of the woods have been givin' him some grief lately about always lettin' the rich kid go while bustin' my penniless ass, and if the day ever comes when he gets tired of hearing it, he could make some serious trouble for you. Do us both a favor and get out of here. Please?"

  Because Sam could see it was important to Elvis, he climbed to his feet. "Yeah, all right; I'm goin'.

  I'll see you tomorrow, though, huh?"

  "Yeah."

  "If you're not in jail, that is." Sam gave him a cocky smile. "Well, hey, if you are, I suppose I can always bake you a cake."

  Elvis looked at the mess he'd made of Overmyer's car. Part of him was real pleased with the havoc he'd wrought. But there was another part that was ashamed, and he almost felt like crying. Deliberately he looked away, doggedly turning his attention back to his friend. "Good idea," he said with forced cockiness. "Be sure to include the file."

  "You got it, babe." Sam hesitated a moment, then sauntered off into the woods behind the house, melting into the darkness just as Nadine Donnelly's customer and the sheriff rounded the comer.

  Propping his hip against the front fender of the car, Elvis leaned over to place the sledgehammer, head down, on the ground, its handle against the car bumper. Then he straightened and clasped his arms defensively across his chest as he watched the two men advance.

  "There he is," Overmyer snarled. His jaw dropped open when he saw the damage to his car, and he turned the air blue with his obscenities. "Arrest him," he ultimately demanded, shaking with rage.

  "I want the little bastard thrown in jail."

  John Bragston eyed the "little" bastard. Mammoth within the play of moonlight and shadows that fell across his face and torso, Elvis stared back at him without expression, but there was no disguising the turmoil in his neon blue eyes. And as it always did, that suppressed emotion tugged at something in Bragston.

  How the hell would he feel, he wondered, not for the first time, if it were his mother locking him out of the house while she serviced some self-important, pompous son of a bitch? It was difficult for boys that age to even acknowledge the possibility that their mothers might be sexual beings, never mind having the knowledge that yours was the town hooker thrust in your face night after night.

  On the other hand, Elvis had destroyed some property here tonight and his acting out couldn't be allowed to escalate this way.

  Damn it to hell. What a mess.

  He turned to Overmyer. "Well, I can arrest him, all right," he agreed easily. He pulled his handcuffs from his belt and approached Elvis, who without argument stuck his hands out. Starting to put them on, the sheriff paused to look back at Overmyer. " 'Course, you might want to consider what Margaret's going to say," he advised. "She might have a few choice questions for you once she hears where your car was parked when Donnelly here took the ham
mer to it." He snapped the cuffs over Elvis' wrists. Then turning back to Overmyer, he said amiably, "But, hey, I'm sure you'll think of somethin' plausible to tell her."

  Overmyer had snapped upright and was regarding him in alarm. "You can't tell Margaret where the car was parked!" he protested.

  "I don't aim to," Bragston retorted calmly. "But use your head, Lee. Pressing charges means going down to the station and filling out a report. There are people at the station, and just so you understand this right up front, when it comes to my reports I give special consideration to no man. It either gets filled out entirely or it doesn't get filled out at all."

  He could almost see the wheels turning in the other man's head. Hell, I can get away with it, Overmyer was thinking. Then, Shit, no, I'll never get away with it.

  "Give it careful consideration," Bragston advised, "because you're going to be stuck with the results of whatever you decide. It's a small island." He disguised his impatience. Hell in a wheelbarrow, Lee was a native, and anyone who had lived here his entire life shouldn't have to be reminded of the obvious. Then again, Overmyer hadn't exactly ever been known for his mental wizardry. The sheriff shrugged. "Hell, man," he said, "you know as well as I do, there are damn few secrets on Flannery. Word tends to get around."

  Overmyer gave Elvis a bitter look. "Yeah, and I suppose in this case it's pretty much guaranteed to."

  The look Elvis returned didn't contain cocky triumph. Instead, it was filled with contempt. "Don't look at me, you scum sucker," he snarled. "Mrs. Overmyer's always been real nice to me." And people like that weren't so thick on the ground he could afford to deliberately hurt one. "She ain't gonna hear nothin' 'bout this from me."

  "Well, there you go," Bragston said cheerfully. "Maybe no one down at the station will say anything either." He jerked his head at Elvis. "Let's go, son."