Steady Madness

by Mike McCrary

  Steady Madness

  (Steady Teddy Series Book 2)

  Mike McCrary

  Contents

  Steady Madness

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part II

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Part III

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Part IV

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Hope You Enjoyed the Madness

  Follow Mike on BookBub

  Also by Mike McCrary

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Steady Madness

  (Steady Teddy Series Book 2)

  by

  Mike McCrary

  Prologue

  I forgot how quiet my parents’ house is at night.

  Out in the country, there are few manmade sounds to crowd out the silence. There are crickets, sometimes cicadas, but no cars or sirens or helicopters buzzing overhead. A lot of time the only thing you hear is yourself breathing. The deafening sound of you thinking.

  Right now I’m listening to Skinny Drake snore like a son of a bitch.

  He’s out cold in the guest room. He’s still healing, but better. The covers are up to his chin, but I pull them up tighter. I keep checking on him like he’s a child, an infant. He is my younger brother, but he is nonetheless a grown-ass man and I’ve seen him do some fairly grown-up things. Some things no one his age, or any other, should ever have to do.

  I’m tired as hell, but sleep hasn’t taken a shine to me. It hasn’t as far back as I can remember, so I doubt sleep will start hanging out with me now.

  At the McCluskeys’ house, Skinny Drake pulled me out of the office and dumped me in a Cadillac he stole from their garage. He drove deep into the night and found a town with a late-night clinic that would look at us without asking a lot of questions. It was a 24-hour vet, to be exact, but they got us patched up good enough.

  Can’t believe he did it, considering how bad off he was with the gunshot and all. He’s a tough one. Might not look it, but he is.

  When I came out of my spell, that’s what Skinny Drake calls them, I was on the doc’s table with my arm bandaged up. It’s sad, but I’ve gotten so used to that state of being that I didn’t question any of it. We paid off the vet and his nice wife to keep quiet, then my brother and I took our asses on down the road. Skinny Drake drifted in and out most of the way, but we managed to torch the McCluskeys’ Caddy in an alley somewhere in Wyoming and bought a used car with cash.

  That was about a day ago. There are probably better choices than coming back to this house, but I don’t care. This is my home and this is where I’m staying.

  If trouble comes knocking, we’re ready to answer.

  I quietly close the door to Skinny Drake’s new room and move out into the dark living room. Only shards of moonlight cut through the room, lighting my way. Love the stillness. I think of firing up the laptop, but think better of it. Think I’d like to leave the silence alone.

  Let it breathe.

  Standing in the middle of the living room, I can’t help but think about how my life changed right here. Perhaps in this very spot. Not sure if it’s full circle or not, but if you start at the night Jonathan and Mama McCluskey came in here and then end with tonight, I’d say there’s a journey in there.

  A lot of changes.

  A lot of pain dished out.

  A lot of it on me, but I feel I dished out some of my own.

  The blue vase that I made as child sits on the counter. I don’t remember making it, but it’s clear I did. Can’t understand the psychology behind Jonathan and/or Mama McCluskey for taking it in the first place, but I have it now and it’s where it should be. Never should have left. Picking it up I let my fingers feel the rough edges, the imperfections, the beauty that can only come from a child.

  White blobs form.

  I fight it, but this feels different. Not like the other times. The times triggered by rage or fear or whatever-the-hell does it to me. Setting down the vase, I crumble to the floor. Balled up with my knees pulled to my chest. My mind is speeding, fumbling through something faint and grainy.

  Something distant.

  Holy shit.

  A memory.

  That was it. I had a memory from childhood.

  Only a flash, a sliver, but it robbed the air straight from my lungs.

  My busted mind just gave me a gift. I saw myself pulling that blue vase from my backpack and handing it to my mother. The smile on her face. The look in her eyes. It was only a fraction of a memory, but oh my God there was a memory. This is not something I compiled from evidence or constructed from imagination. No, this is different. The feeling is so much different.

  The tears pour down my face.

  My body shakes.

  I can’t help but smile.

  Not going to overthink it. For now, I’m just so damn happy to have it. As the smile grows I can taste the salt from my tears. Glancing back to the vase, I can’t help but think what else is out there that can unlock my head? Does this house hold the key for me?

  For my memory?

  I get up and pour myself a glass of wine—it’s this cheap red something they had at the store—then pick up a gun. I step outside as quietly as I can. Taking a seat on the swing, I sip my wine and watch the night. The stars. The clouds are rolling at a pretty good clip, covering and clearing the moon as if they were a background on a school stage play.

  Mama McCluskey and her boys are dead, but I’ll probably never completely relax. No idea where Gordo and the Nastys are. One of the reasons I brought a gun out here with me. The wine is helping me come down some. Feel my shoulders coming down too. A therapist told me once that when I feel anxious or uncertain about things, I should take inventory of the good things I have and not what I don’t. A true “glass half-full” exercise. Always marked that down as bullshit, but I’m open to new ideas at the moment. So, okay…

  I’m alive.

  I have a brother.

  Got a butt-load of money now.

  Got the house.

  I may not remember shit, but I know what happened to me and as of a few minutes ago. I have hope that my head can unlock more.

  All things considered, not bad, kid. Not bad at all. I sip my wine and rock back and forth in the swing. A cool night breeze blows gently across my face. My eyes are getting heavy. Surprisingly heavy. I feel a fade washing over me. This feels like sleep, but I haven’t slept in—I can’t remember when was the last time. I’ve blacked out, but not real, honest-to-God sleep.

  I don’t want to let my shock snap me out of this, so I try to forget that I haven’t slept since I was eighteen. Not easy, but I want to try. I close my eyes and
let the warm wave wash over me. Is that “glass half-full” shit working? Is it the combo of the wine, the swing and the night air? Who cares? Can’t help but think the closure of my situation can’t hurt. Closing the door on your past can be relaxing in and of itself, I suppose.

  I set my wine glass down on the porch.

  I shut my eyes as I lie down on the swing.

  This little piggy came home.

  I’m jolted awake.

  It’s not morning, not quite, but I can make out the beginning of light along the horizon, with shades of purple and orange peeking through. No idea how long I was out, but I was asleep. No question. That was actual sleep. I laugh to myself. I just slept, for Christ’s sake.

  “Something funny, Teddy?”

  I fire straight up in the swing, fighting to get my eyes right.

  I know that voice.

  My eyes come into focus.

  Jonathan is sitting in a wheelchair in front of the porch, along with two big boys. One of them I remember: Gordo’s driver, Bear Boy. I grab my gun off the swing, whipping it around with dead aim on Jonathan. His boys pull guns on me. Even Bear Boy. Thought we were tight.

  “Teddy, we need to talk,” Jonathan says.

  “Not sure we do.”

  “Can you put that down?”

  “I cannot.”

  “Haven’t you had enough gunplay? I heard about the house.”

  “Always room for a little more.”

  Jonathan’s eyes bore through me. Hard to get a read on the emotion. Rather not know. He looks better than when I last saw him. Not great, but better than the near-death man I left in NYC. If he in any way refers to me as his daughter I’m going to put a bullet in his brain. His boys can wipe me off the face of the Earth. I don’t care, but I swear to God and all that is holy in this world I will kill this fucking asshole if the word daughter spills out of his mouth.

  “I’m sorry, Teddy. For all of this. There’s a lot to unpack.”

  “It’s okay. I’m sorry about your wife and, oh yeah, your sons.”

  “Sorry about your mom.”

  I cock my gun. His boys do the same.

  Silence.

  The wind blows.

  The leaves rustle in the trees.

  “What the hell?” Skinny Drake steps out from the house with his arm hanging in a sling made for a dog.

  One of Jonathan’s men puts a gun on my brother.

  “Stop,” Jonathan says. “We can take turns slapping each other around or we can talk like adults. There are some things you both need to know.”

  Skinny Drake joins me on the swing. Jonathan motions for his boys to lower their guns. He eyes me, wanting me to do the same. I lower mine, but keep it ready to rock.

  “Good. This is progress. Now. Let’s talk about Gordon. ‘Gordo,’ you call him.”

  “You mean Uncle Gordo? You failed to outline the family tree when we visited you in New York.”

  “His name isn’t Gordon, or Gordo for that matter.”

  I stop cold.

  “Not your uncle either. His name is Marcus. He’s my son, and also one of the final surviving trust beneficiaries. Just like you two.”

  I look to Skinny Drake. He closes his eyes, shaking his head.

  Jonathan lights up a cigar. “Like I said before… there’s a lot to unpack.”

  Part 1

  “A man should never neglect his family for business.” - Walt Disney

  Chapter 1

  Unpack.

  “There’s a lot to unpack.”

  This man, this asshole, just said that. To me.

  I can only stare back at him. He cocks his head and raises his eyebrows, waiting for me. Waiting for me to say something. Waiting for me to make a move of some sort, I suppose.

  Don’t have one. No move to make, and nothing to say. I sit still as hell, stuck in park off what he just said.

  Unpack.

  Yup, he said it to me. Actually, he said it to me and my brother, Skinny Drake. Unbelievable. The sack on this smug dickhole. I glance to his goons and the three guns they have on me and my brother as we sit on my front porch rocking ever so slightly back and forth. It’s like the goons are these stone walls of mute meat and muscle standing ready to obey their master.

  If Jonathan so much as snaps his fingers they will snap our necks.

  Probably just gun us down on the porch and dump the bodies, if I had to guess. I used to like Bear Boy, one of the goons, the one closest to Jonathan. He was cool to me for a time. He gave me a ride from the airport when I first met Jonathan in New York. He also kept me from being torn apart at a strip joint ATM. Yeah, he was cool. Now he won’t make eye contact. That time has long since passed it seems.

  The swing creaks.

  The wind blows.

  The silence is deafening.

  I wish I were still asleep. This really sucks on so many levels. I didn’t even get a chance to truly enjoy the first bit of sleep I’d had in a long, long damn time. The first true sleep I’d had since I was eighteen. Ain’t that a bitch. Imagine if you hadn’t had so much as a nap since high school. Damn unfair. I wish I didn’t value my life as much as I do.

  Didn’t use to value it at all, but I do now. I wish I had the guts to gun down these assholes, drop them to the dirt. I can fit a few more bodies in the field. Always room for a few more dead dickholes.

  Think the shovel’s still out there.

  Could stick Jonathan in the ground right next to his sons currently rotting in the dirt out there. I used to be that girl. A girl who buried bodies on her land. That girl didn’t have much reason to hang on tight to her life, or anything else for that matter.

  Things are different now.

  I’m different now.

  I have reasons to live.

  Good ones.

  I remember counting them down a few short hours ago. They are, in no particular order, as follows:

  I have a brother. Until a couple of days ago I didn’t know he existed, but now he’s sitting beside me on this swing. He’s a good man. He’s got my back and I’ve got his. A better brother I couldn’t ask for.

  Next reason to keep breathing? I may not remember crap, but at least I now know what happened to me. I know this unpacked piece of shit in my yard named Jonathan is my biological father, and also the man who murdered my parents—my mother and the man I considered my father.

  More than simply considered my father.

  That man will always be my father in my mind. Will always be Daddy in my heart. Not Jonathan. Never, ever Jonathan. Jonathan and his wife, Mama McCluskey I used to call her, broke into my childhood home, the one behind me, and beat me when I was eighteen. Beat me without mercy or an ounce of humanity. This is why I can’t remember shit. Why I couldn’t sleep until last night.

  She’s dead now.

  Mama McCluskey, that is.

  I’ll dig into that later.

  Last few items of good to cover. I have a butt-load of money and I’ve got this house. I truly believe this house holds the only key for me remembering. It’s the only link I have to my past, to my family, and it’s worth fighting for.

  I was running through this little happy list before I fell asleep a few hours ago. Asleep. Jesus, almost forgot that one. I can add sleeping to the list now. Sleeping might rocket up the charts to number one with a hot-ass bullet.

  Ah yes, bullets.

  Let’s come back to the here-and-now of my situation. Sitting on a porch swing, gun in my lap, brother with a shot-up arm in a sling designed for a Great Dane seated next to me and, of course, my biological father (Jonathan) in a wheelchair in the yard of the house where he killed my mother and the man I have always thought of as my father.

  Damn, one more thing.

  Back to his wife.

  Jonathan’s. Mama McCluskey.

  I bashed in her head with my baseball bat a few days ago. Wish I had the bat right now. It soothes me, my bat. This is where I am in life. A wealthy woman, armed to the teeth, with a new fami
ly I didn’t know existed. And now Jonathan has just informed me that the man I thought was my uncle, the guy I knew as “Gordo,” is not my uncle. He’s not even Gordo. His name is Marcus and he is in fact my brother.

  Confused? Try being me.

  It’s the shit soup I’m being served. It’s cold and cannot be sent back.

  There’s also the matter of this trust. Not trust in the warm and fuzzy way. Not in the personal kind of way like when you trust your faithful dog.

  No, I’m talking about trust in the legal way.

  The type of trust pulled together by lawyers with words on paper, and the words in this particular trust have made me a wealthy woman. Not to mention my brother. A survivor’s trust, correctly titled, whose only living beneficiaries are now me, my brother Skinny Drake, and Marcus/Gordo. Guess Gordo’s a brother as well. He’ll always be Gordo to me, but that’s still some fresh shit for me to take in. I don’t understand all the ins and outs, the legal blah-blah of the trust, but I know enough to know it involves me being alive and wealthy.

  I need some time to process. Would love to go back to sleep, but the goons and guns surrounding us are probably not gonna let that happen. I guess, now that I think about it, I can agree with Jonathan about one thing at least.