Volume Two: In Moonlight and Memories, #2

by Julie Ann Walker

  Of the two of us, Cash has always been the better marksman. He claims it’s because, thanks to Rick, he has a particular thirst for blood that I’ve never acquired. But just because Cash is better, that doesn’t mean I’m not still damn good.

  I don’t miss what I aim for.

  I get off two shots to Sullivan’s one, and the air is rent by the roar of gunfire. The smell of spent propellant blooms inside my nose like an acrid flower.

  Luckily, speed of fire isn’t the only difference between me and the superintendent of the New Orleans Police Department. There’s a big disparity in accuracy too. While his shot ranges wide, whizzing by my shoulder and lodging into the corner of the house, both of my bullets find a home inside Sullivan’s big, barrel chest.

  He goes down like a ton of bricks, his cowboy hat flying off his head and getting stuck between two balusters. (It’s a weird thing to notice at a time like this, but he’s bald except for the thin ring of reddish-brown hair that starts above his ears and circles the back of his head.)

  His six-shooter slips from his hand and skids along the boards of the pier before coming to a rest near the edge. Now that it’s not in his hands, the weapon is no more a threat to me than a child’s toy. And yet the sheen of its chrome plating continues to sparkle menacingly.

  I drop my own pistol to my side. It suddenly weighs a hundred pounds. Letting my head fall back, I gaze at the glistening underbelly of the night sky.

  Deep winter in the bayou means deceiving stillness interrupted by bursts of volatile life. Wild boars crash through the underbrush. Egrets take unexpected flight from the water’s edge. A coyote ambushes a cottontail and drags it away while it squeals and wriggles. But right now…silence, as if the entire swamp is watching as a bit more of my light disappears. As a bit more of my soul dies.

  I know from experience the necrosis will continue to spread in the coming days.

  A fluttering sensation against my back has me lowering my chin. Maggie still has a hold of my shirt. She’s shaking like a leaf. Her skin is the color of milk glass. And her mouth is open, revealing the gap between her two front teeth.

  No words issue from her throat, but her eyes ask, How did this happen?

  I shake my head. If everything happens for a reason, I can’t figure the hows and the whys of this. It seems so pointless.

  Cupping her jaw, I run a thumb over the tender skin of her cheek, wiping away the lone tear glistening there.

  “It’s okay, Maggie May,” I tell her. But we both know that’s not true.

  “S—” she tries, but has to stop and swallow. “Sullivan?” she finally manages.

  Even though I know what I’ll find, I tuck my pistol into the back of my jeans and walk over to the police superintendent.

  He’s faceup on the pier. Blood that looks black in the night continues to grow around him. It drips between the wooden slats and falls into the swamp below.

  The iron-rich smell will draw the night hunters from their hiding spots soon. But for now, there’s only the hushed whisper of the breeze in the trees.

  Pressing a finger to his neck, I check for a pulse even though there’s no point. My first shot blew apart his sternum. My second exploded his heart. He was dead before he hit the pier.

  “Is he—” Maggie can’t seem to finish the sentence.

  “Dead,” I assure her.

  She stumbles to the railing and wretches over the side.

  Turning away, I give her privacy. I lost my lunch the first time I saw a gunshot victim too. But the years, and the things I’ve witnessed since then, have forged my constitution into a thing of tempered steel.

  When she’s finished, she wipes the back of her hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she whispers, holding on to the rail to steady herself.

  “Nothing to apologize for,” I assure her, my mind spinning through the details, sorting them into a list.

  Funny how your brain can continue to function normally even when your whole world is falling down around your ears.

  “I need you to go grab my cell phone. It’s charging on the bedside table.” Her eyes are wide and empty, like her mind has run somewhere to hide. She needs something to do. Inaction only strengthens shock. “Call the cops,” I instruct her. “Tell ’em to get here quick. Once you’re done with that, find Abelman’s number in my contacts. Ask him to meet me at the police station. I’m gonna need a good lawyer.”

  Chapter Sixty-five

  ______________________________________

  Cash

  People think time is linear. But actually, it’s circular. What goes around, comes around.

  This fight with my sperm donor? Been coming around for years.

  He’s blowing like a winded bull—the charge up the stoop outside so he could sucker-punch me in the back took something out of him. And I’m battling the red that’s edging into my vision.

  Here in the South, people compare love to kudzu. It’s pervasive, and once it takes root, it envelops you. I’m here to say hate is the same way.

  Right now, my hate fills me up until I imagine it’s sprouting from my ears like a diseased vine, dripping rot into my heart and poison into my soul. I want to kill him.

  For my mother.

  For me.

  For everyone he’s ever swindled or backstabbed or blackmailed or cheated.

  But first, I want to hurt him. I want to hear him scream. I want to see him beg for mercy.

  When he lunges, I easily sidestep him, landing a punishing blow to his meaty jaw. My knuckles sing with pleasure/pain at the point of contact. My ears rejoice at the sound of his teeth clacking together.

  He staggers, his bulk carrying him to the open front door. There, he fumbles for the knob, using it as leverage to remain upright.

  Outside, the sounds coming from Bourbon Street are a low, steady thrum. Inside, the droning in my ear is back, sounding like a hungry mosquito. I barely notice it. Too caught up in the shock that flowers over Rick’s face when he stares at me.

  His jaw is already bright red. Later, it will be black and blue.

  Quid pro quo for all the bruises he gave me over the years.

  “I’ll give you this much.” He touches his jaw, wiggling it side to side. “Your right hook has some serious firepower.” He has the audacity to smile. “You get that from me.”

  His words leave a film behind on my brain, a greasy residue.

  I try to outrun the memories of the beatings he gave me, but they’re too quick. They catch up with me and unspool like a movie reel in my mind. All the satisfied looks on his face when he landed a punch. All the times he danced around me like a prizefighter. All the joy he took from inflicting torment and misery.

  He was the one to teach me how to throw a punch. How to take a punch. And now look at me. Tickled by my show of blinding violence. Hopping from foot to foot like a boxer. Smiling because I can see the evidence of my hatred imprinted on his chin.

  I don’t want to admit it, but it’s impossible to hide from the truth. I’ve become the thing I hate most.

  I’ve become him.

  Despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins and the bloodlust bubbling beneath the surface of my skin, my whole body suddenly feels creaky and aged. I stop dancing and drop my arms.

  “Most fathers wouldn’t take pride in that,” I tell him.

  “Most fathers are assholes,” he says.

  “See? That’s just it. They aren’t. Most fathers prefer hugs over hitting, love over hate. You can’t see it, but it’s you. You’re the asshole.”

  The vein snaking up the center of his forehead swells. “Careful what you say to me, boy.”

  “Or what?” The noise I make is rude. “You’ll beat the shit out of me? Been there. Done that too many times to count. Don’t you ever get tired of the same old song and dance?”

  “I won’t get tired of it until you finally learn to show me some fucking respect. That’s something my old man taught me. Your woman and kids should damn well respect you.”<
br />
  Your woman and kids. As if Mom and I were his property.

  Never met my paternal grandfather. He died before I was born. All I know about Big Joe Armstrong is that he worked his whole life in a factory that made radios for military jets. And, apparently, that he was as much of a sonofabitch as my own father.

  “Please tell me it’s not as simple or clichéd as that,” I say.

  Rick’s brow wrinkles. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about you beating me and Mom because your own father beat you. I’m talking about a textbook case of perpetuating the cycle of abuse.”

  He snorts. “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me, you little shit. I don’t have any deep, dark emotional wounds that need healing. I wasn’t a stranger to the sting of my father’s knuckles, that’s true. But he only gave it to me when I deserved it. And unlike you and your mother, I learned pretty quickly not to deserve it.”

  I stare at him, but it’s my mother’s face I’m seeing. All the black eyes. All the fat lips. “You think Mom deserved what you did to her?”

  “She was a dirty slut who got me drunk and screwed me without a condom. Then she had the bad sense to turn up pregnant and whine to my old man about it. The bastard made me marry her, and then he up and died not two months later. If I’d known he had a time bomb for a ticker, I could’ve waited him out. You and your mom wouldn’t have been my problem. I could’ve lived the life I wanted.”

  I know it’s useless to argue with him. But I can’t help myself. “I seriously doubt Mom got you drunk. You never seemed to need any help with that. And what life were you so anxious to live anyway?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He waves a hand. “What matters is she should’ve been grateful for the roof I put over her head and the food I put in her belly. But she never could come around to it. All she ever did was cry her eyes out and let her looks go to shit.”

  “Because you beat her!” I yell.

  He sniffs, unfazed by my reasoning. “You’re just like her.” There’s disdain in his voice.

  “Which explains why you started kicking the shit out of me, I guess.” There’s sarcasm in my voice.

  “Bah! This is a ridiculous conversation. I didn’t come here to talk about our dysfunctional family.”

  “Oh, so you admit it’s dysfunctional?”

  He ignores my interruption. “I came here to talk about your friends and who they got to squeal on me. You better think twice before telling me to go fuck myself again. You may’ve gotten in one good shot.” Again, he touches his jaw. “But I think we both know that when it comes to this”—he shakes a fat fist—“I’m still the better man.”

  “You want to know who sicced the DA on you?” My rage has been replaced by a feeling of detachment. I want this to end. I want it all to end. I want to be free of him, finally. “You really want to know?” He narrows his eyes. “It was me. I’m the one who gave the DA the goods on you.”

  It should feel good to admit that aloud. To prove, once and for all, that I will be the one to come out on top. But all it does is drain me further.

  Rick’s eyebrows lower. I see the intent in his eyes. So when he comes for me, I’m ready.

  Even though fighting is his MO and even though I’m feeding into his illness by engaging, I have to defend myself. Once you’re in the barrel of a rifle, there’s only one way out.

  When he takes a swing at my head, I duck and drill him in the gut with all my strength—which, unfortunately, isn’t what it used to be. Still, my fist sinks into the overabundance of his flesh. When he doubles over, making a strangled oomph, his hot, tobacco-rank breath puffs against my cheek. I immediately add an uppercut to the mix. A flawless one-two combo.

  Sailing backward, he lands on his back with enough force to shake the house. The new windows rattle in their frames, and the silver picture frame—the one Maggie gave me for Christmas—jostles on the mantel.

  Instinct propels me to go after him while he’s down, to punch and kick and mutilate in every way possible. But that’s what he’d do.

  So instead, I cross my arms and watch dispassionately as he rolls side to side like a turtle stuck on its back. Eventually, he gets his knees under him. Sweat drips from his brow to stain the newly sanded floor as he hoists himself upright with a mighty grunt.

  His eyes are ablaze with a lifetime of hatred when he looks at me. Blood seeps from the corner of his lip.

  A few minutes ago, the sight of him bleeding would’ve filled me with joy. Now all I feel is a strange, all-encompassing apathy that I attribute to a few things, not the least of which is the combination of booze and pills.

  “I should’ve forced your fucking cunt of a mother to get an abortion.” He gnashes his ridiculous veneers, using the back of his hand to wipe away the blood. Thanks to the sweat pouring off him, it leaves a pink streak across his cheek.

  This isn’t the first time he’s said that to me. Those awful words used to cut deep. Now, the damage has long since scabbed over and the scab has long since fallen off. What’s left in its place is a layer of thick, protective skin.

  “Nothing you say can hurt me,” I tell him. “And I think I’ve proved I can kick your ass if I want to. But see, here’s the thing. I don’t want to. You’re not worth it. So we’re done here. Get the fuck out of my house.”

  I point to the open door as a group of revelers stumble by outside. The light inside draws their attention. They salute me with their go-cups, blowing party horns and drunkenly calling, “Happy New Year!”

  Right. It is a new year. Time to let go of past grievances and make a fresh start. Except, here I am right where I’ve always been, squaring off against the bastard who supplied my Y chromosome.

  The instant I have the thought, I’m defeated by it.

  “This isn’t over between us.” Rick points a finger at my face. “Not by a long shot.”

  “But see, it is. Soon, you’ll be serving a nice long prison sentence, and I’ll be—” I stop and shake my head. “It doesn’t matter where I’ll be. You’ll be where you’ve always belonged.”

  “You truly did it, didn’t you? You weren’t just blowing and blustering. You truly are the reason the DA is coming after me.”

  I nod. But I don’t feel any real satisfaction in it.

  “Do you hate me that much? So much you’d turn against your own flesh and blood?”

  After everything he’s done to me, after all the pain and suffering, how can he be surprised?

  “Ten years ago, I hated you. Hell, ten minutes ago, I hated you. But now?” I shrug. “Now I realize I can’t face my future while holding on to my past.”

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I feel their weight. Their unassailable truth.

  “So I’m going to let go of it,” I tell him. “All of it. What you did to Mom. What you did to me. What you’ve done to so many good people. I’m going to forgive you, Rick. Not for you, but for me.”

  He stares at me in disbelief, his too-wet mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

  The whiskey in my pocket sends up her siren’s call. The mattress in the master bedroom joins the chorus. This entire night feels like I’ve been awake in my own worst nightmare.

  “Just go,” I say with a heavy sigh. “We’re even.”

  “How the hell do you figure that?” he demands.

  I search his eyes. Those eyes that are mirror images of my own. “You stole my childhood,” I tell him evenly. “Now I’ve stolen your future.”

  “You sonofabitch,” he snarls.

  I laugh. “As many times as you’ve called me that, I should have it tattooed across my chest.”

  As if to prove me right, he adds, “You sorry, ungrateful sonofabitch.”

  This time I don’t respond. Not because there aren’t a million things I could throw in his face, but because I don’t have anything left in me to give to him. “I’m going to bed,” I say. “You can show yourself out.”

  I make the mistake of tu
rning my back on him. Just for a second. Truly, it’s only an instant.

  That’s all he needs.

  I hear his heavy footfalls and swing around to see the bulky silver picture frame raised high in his hand. I have enough time to lift my arms and yell, “No!” before the hard metal corner connects with my temple and it’s all over for me.

  White-hot pain explodes.

  The world goes dark.

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  About Julie Ann Walker

  A New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, Julie loves to travel the world looking for views to compete with her deadlines. And if those views happen to come with a blue sky and sunshine? All the better! When she’s not writing, Julie enjoys camping, hiking, cycling, fishing, cooking, petting every dog that walks by her, and… reading, of course!

  Find her online at

  www.julieannwalker.com