by Mike Stewart
Sarah pushed a suffocating mass of hurt down deep in her stomach. She sat up straight and reviewed her lines in her head. Carol had said “Be perfect.” It was the only way she would get to stay with Carol, and, Sarah was convinced, it was the only way to finally to stop it.
First her mother had died. Then Trey. Then that awful Patricia. Now her father was gone, too, and Carol was the only one left who loved her. Sarah swallowed hard and bit down on her lip. She wasn't sure why everyone around her always died. She'd never even heard of something like that happening to anyone else. All she knew was that she had loved them all—all except Patricia. Clearly, she'd done something wrong. Sarah didn't understand what, exactly. But there had to be something.
Carol reached over to squeeze Sarah's hand. Sarah squeezed back briefly, then pulled away and folded both hands in her lap. She straightened her spine. “I'll be perfect, Carol. Don't worry. From now on I promise to be perfect.”
THE LAST CHAPTER
Scott stood outside the door of the brick Tudor on Roseland Drive in Homewood, Alabama. His heart raced. A coiled cable of nausea slowly unwound inside his stomach.
He rang the doorbell.
A fat black woman opened the door and glared into his eyes. She didn't speak, and he didn't seem able to form intelligent thought. She seemed on the verge of shutting the door in his face when something like recognition formed in her eyes. She swung the door wide.
Scott pulled open the screen door and stepped inside his secret nightmare. The house had been put back exactly the way it had looked before the fire, and then never changed again. He stopped and glanced to the left, where the same tuxedo sofa and oval coffee table from his childhood still squatted against the back wall. Of course, they weren't the same ones—just the same brands and colors and placement.
“You comin'?” The fat nurse's voice jolted Scott inside his skin.
Scott nodded. He turned to follow her into the back den.
And that's when he saw her.
Nancy Thomas sat in a wicker rocker. Her head wrapped by a black turban, her tiny body draped inside a silver dashiki—his mother looked like a sinister Vulcan queen on Star Trek. As he entered the room she began to bounce the balls of her feet against the floor, and he saw that she wore metallic-silver slippers to match her gown.
His eyes moved back up to her grinning face.
He broke the silence. “I'm Scott.”
“No shit. Sit in the chair where Canon sits. Sit in the chair where he makes music.” She waved impatiently at an old easy chair. “Go on! I told you to sit!”
Scott walked over and lowered himself into the chair. He wanted to speak, but the whirlwind inside his head kept blowing away the words as quickly as they came. Half-finished thoughts and sentences disappeared into a thick miasma of smells, sights, and emotions from the last night he had spent in this place fifteen years before. He smelled smoke that was not there. He felt the heat of a blazing fire scorch the skin on his face.
He cleared his throat. “You met Canon Walker?”
“What I said. You're sitting in his chair. Always will be. Canon's chair—that's what I call it. Canon's chair. It's his.” She stopped chattering and let her eyes roam over Scott's face. “Didn't tell you, did he? Supposed to be a friend, and he didn't tell you he ever saw me. Liking him better all the time. That's what I am. Liking him better all the time.”
“He's a good man.”
She made a snorting sound. “Canon thought he found me. Guess you didn't tell the ‘good man' about your barbecued mommy.” She held shiny, curled fingers up to her lips and made a shushing sound. “Shhhh. Don't tell anyone about the crazy woman. Don't tell the teachers. Don't tell the schools. Don't tell the preachers. And don't tell the fools.” She changed her voice to mimic some doctor from the past. “‘Scott's normal. He deserves a good life. He's the normal one.'” Her voice went back. “Got to protect Scotty from his crazy, burned-up family.”
“They—the doctors who treated you—they told me to move on.”
“You did it! Moved on. Moved away. Gone!” Her eyes narrowed. “You tell folks that Bobby and I are dead, don't you?”
“I thought Bobby was dead.” He took a shaky breath. “And, fifteen years ago, your own psychiatrist told me that my mother was dead. He said the person who was left didn't care about me.”
She laughed that cackling laugh. “Well, the dumbass got that much right. Take off, Lazarus! Take off to the stars. Forget about all of us. Forget about the scars.”
Scott's ribs spasmed and gripped his lungs with suffocating force. He sucked hard but couldn't seem to get air past his collarbone. Breathe. Please, God, let me breathe. He closed his eyes and forced his mind to go blank. Seconds passed, and his chest filled with air again. He looked up. “I came here to ask about Bobby.”
“Knew you didn't come to see me.” Her grin widened. “Everybody wants to know about Bobby. First that man from Boston, then Canon, then the cops.” Nancy caught a flicker of something in Scott's eyes and sat forward. “That's right. Cops been around. Looking here. Looking there. Looking everywhere. But they're not looking at the right there. Nope. Not looking at the there that's the there where he is.”
“Someone else came around asking questions before Cannonball?”
“What I said. Sent Bobby off looking for his beautiful big brother.” She spaced out the last three words with biting contempt. “That boy can smell trouble. Smell it like smoke on fire.” She waved a shiny claw in the air. “Saved your ass, didn't he? Saved your ass, and now he's run to the there instead of the here. He's at the there that's safe from the lookers. He's at the there that's the there where no one is.”
“Are you telling me Bobby's safe?”
Nancy Thomas cackled. “Safe? Safe at home. Sliding in. Called by the ump.” She threw her bony hands up and screeched, “Safe!”
Scott didn't know whether Bobby was safe or his mother was just nuts. “That's all I wanted to know. Bobby helped me. I wanted to know he's okay.” He paused. “Tell him if he ever needs help . . .”
“Help?” His mother cackled. “Help? How're you gonna help him? That boy is two of you. Always has been. Lucky you got a brother like Bobby, that's what I say.” Something hard passed through her eyes. “Lucky you. Unlucky him.”
“Well . . .” Scott's voice faded as the room closed in on him. “I thought I should see you. I'm not sure what . . . Tell Bobby I was here.” He rose to his feet and struggled for something to say. “I know this is hard for both of us.”
Nancy slumped back into the rocker and closed her eyes. Tears welled up along her lashes, spilled over, and cut paths through thick powder on her cheeks. Finally, she held up her burn-scarred hands so that Scott could see them. “Hard for you?” Her tone mocking him. “Poor baby. Poor, poor baby.” Her face hardened. “You make me sick. Poor Scotty. Lucky Scotty. Perfect Scotty.” She chanted the words. “Bunk and junk. Bunk and junk.” Her eyes narrowed. “Do you even know what you are?”
Scott looked down at the tiny woman. “I know what I am. And I know what I did.”
She rocked forward, her thin voice rising in pitch. “Do you?”
“Yeah,” he replied, “I do. But one night isn't going to swallow my life. Not anymore.”
Her voice dropped to a contemptuous whisper. “The good son.” She made a huh sound full of air. “The good son knows everything and accepts everything, and now it's time to get back to his perfect life.”
Scott nodded. His mother was more right than she knew.
He turned and walked out of his childhood home, down red-brick steps, and between rows of dark monkey grass that lined the front walk. Outside the yard and moving faster now, he turned down Roseland Drive—down the street where he had played hide-and-seek and cops-and-robbers with Bobby tagging along, the street where he'd ridden his bike so many times.
Two blocks down, he slowed and then stopped.
Scott breathed deeply, and all the horrors of fifteen years before poured o
ver him, drowning him in smoke and fire and the overwhelming emotions of childhood.
He tried to clear his thoughts, but couldn't shake the presence of his father. Scott remembered wandering into the den from his bedroom that night after the unfamiliar scent of gasoline had pulled him out of a sound sleep. That was where he had found his father, bleary-eyed and smelling of gin, slumped in his favorite recliner. A galvanized gas can had hunkered between his heavy wingtip oxfords, as out of place as a snake in a nursery.
“Scotty.” The deep voice had slurred his child's name. “I need you to help me with somethin'.” Then his father had leaned forward and tapped the gas can with the toe of his banker's shoe. “Pour the rest of this out over by the television, there.”
“That's gasoline.” It had been all Scott could think to say.
His father had glared down at him—in Scott's memory, looking impossibly tall and strong. “Pick up the goddamn can and do what I say.”
Scott didn't remember speaking. He knew he'd shaken his head no. And he was sure now that he had cried—he knew because of his father's words. “A crybaby. I need help and I got a goddamn crybaby.” He pointed between his shoes. “Pick up the goddamn can and do what I said.”
It was his father. And, in the end, Scott had poured out gasoline in the den of the house where his mother and brother lay sleeping.
Standing on the street now—a cool springtime breeze ruffling his hair—nausea boiled inside Scott's gut. He leaned over and gripped his knees to stay upright.
His father came floating back, overpowering his thoughts—telling him to run away. But it was a vague and confused command. Scott's mind tumbled back fifteen years again, recalling gruff words chopped and confused by the sobs that racked his body. He felt the pain of his father's grip on his small arm. He had tried to fight, but it had been useless. Flung out the front door like a bag of trash, he'd felt the brick steps come up hard against his knees and shins.
His father had glared down from the doorway—his face red and swollen, his drunken voice bellowing. “You goddamn little girl. I said run!”
Scott had never seen his father drunk. He'd never heard that mix of rasp, slur, and stupidity in his voice. “I need to get Bobby.”
Robert Thomas had simply shaken his head. “I'll get the little sonofabitch.” He waved a drunken hand in the night air. “You haul ass now.” His voice suddenly turned to a roar. “Goddammit! I . . . said . . . run!”
Scott could remember the ground spinning beneath his feet. He remembered the soft beat of bare feet hitting pavement. He remembered running until his lungs had burned and he'd feared his chest would burst.
And, in all the years since, he'd kept running.
Scott straightened up and breathed deeply. The scents of wisteria and freshly cut grass floated on the breeze. Across the street, a new mother jogged behind a stroller and an elderly couple walked hand in hand down the sidewalk.
Scott turned back to look once more at his childhood home on Roseland Drive, then he turned his back and walked away.
Natalie was waiting.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Birmingham attorney Mike Stewart is the author of three acclaimed mystery novels—Sins of the Brother, Dog Island, and A Clean Kill. A native of Vredenburgh, a small South Alabama sawmill town, he grew up exploring the woods, rivers, creeks, and seashores of the Deep South that now play a central role in his fiction. He is at work on his next novel of suspense, which Dell will publish in 2006.
ALSO BY MIKE STEWART
Sins of the Brother
Dog Island
A Clean Kill*
*coming soon from Dell.
PRAISE FOR MIKE STEWART
AND HIS AWARD-WINNING THRILLERS
A CLEAN KILL
A 2002 Publishers Weekly Best Mystery of the Year
“The perfect summer read . . . a paranoia-inducing, smart suspense novel. It's the best legal thriller of its type since The Firm—but it's written better.”
—Flint Journal
“Stewart's third mystery featuring attorney Tom McInnes again combines the suspense, richly textured plot, picturesque Alabama settings, double-crossing characters and sparkling writing that set his first two novels apart from the pack. . . . Stewart throws a curveball in the surprising conclusion that will leave mystery fans eagerly awaiting the fourth in the series.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Stewart knows how to build a solid case for his sleuthing attorney.” —Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
“A tense, nerve-wracking narrative, nonstop action, and a tightly mortared plot keep the pages turning.”
—Library Journal
“For fans of character-driven legal thrillers—such as those written by Phillip Margolin, John Lescroart, and Scott Turow—this one's a definite keeper.”
—Booklist
SINS OF THE BROTHER
“A brilliantly plotted curve of rising suspense . . . An atmospheric setting, evocative family background, Chinese box of a plot, and a hero tough and clever enough to surprise you as much as the bad guys—it all makes for the most accomplished debut of the season, an obvious Edgar contender, and a serious threat for the title of Compleat Suspense Novel.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“[Sins of the Brother] will keep you on edge . . . with more twists than a country road.”
—Chicago Tribune
“A novel of intelligence and authenticity [that will] please the most discriminating mystery reader.”
—Dallas Morning News
“Intricate chess-game suspense . . . Attorney-turned-writer Mike Stewart makes a promising debut with Sins of the Brother.”
—Houston Chronicle
“An impressive debut for a promising sleuth.”
—Booklist
“As good as the characters and plot are, the writing is even better. [The] prose is so lean you could label it fat-free. . . . The tightness and the toughness of Stewart's prose are what Hemingway might write for today's market. Sins of the Brother exemplifies a trend in the best of today's novels, a story with tremendous commercial appeal—watch for the movie—that is also a beautifully crafted literary work. Buy it; enjoy it; tell your friends.” —First Draft
“[A] slick, intelligent debut . . . [A] taut effort. The brooding presence of the Alabama River provides ample obligatory southern gothic ambiance, while the New Orleans and Alabama settings lend pungent atmosphere to a satisfyingly labyrinthine plot.” —Publishers Weekly
“Familial conflicts, rural Southern characters, big-city-lawyer tactics, and a slightly convoluted but intriguing plot round out this debut mystery by a Birmingham attorney.” —Library Journal
“Most crime novelists trying to move in on John Grisham's territory do so by upping the ante. . . . Mike Stewart, in an impressive debut, has carved his own niche by holding back. Stewart shows a gift for economy of language and plot that is rare these days, and a talent for evoking atmosphere that has all but vanished from thriller novels. [He] finds heroism in ordinary men placed in extraordinary circumstances and evil in the seemingly banal, which makes Sins of the Brother chillingly believable. He seems like the kind of novelist whose career you'll want to follow, and this is a good place to start.” —Washington Post
“Good story…smart debut.” —New York Times
DOG ISLAND
“After his well-received first mystery, Sins of the Brother, Stewart scores big again with this second Tom McInnes thriller.” —Publishers Weekly
“Stewart is a deft scene-setter, whether the setting is a tasteful summer home or a squalid bar. . . . [T]he plot races along, as wild as it is believable.”
—Detroit Free Press
“[A]n authentic Southern voice . . . His greatest strength is in involving all the senses. Stewart evokes taste, smell, sight and touch to put the reader right in the middle of the scene.” —Charlotte Observer
“Stewart has come up with something special in the combi
nation of the savvy McInnes and his sidekick.”
—Chicago Tribune
A PERFECT LIFE
A Dell Book / January 2005
Published by Bantam Dell
A division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2005 by Mike Stewart
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: Dell Books, New York, New York.
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eISBN: 978-0-440-33522-1
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