The Blood Red Indian Summer

by David Handler

  Rondell peered at her, mystified. “How were you protecting me?”

  “I know how you feel about that girl. I-I didn’t want you finding out such a horrible thing about her. Maybe I was wrong to keep quiet. Maybe I should have let Calvin slit my throat in the night. Maybe that was the Lord’s plan for me and I was just too blind to see. I’ve prayed on it long and hard, night after night. You can’t imagine how hard I’ve prayed. But I still don’t know the answer. I don’t. I-I just…” She broke down and sobbed.

  “It’s okay, Moms.” Tyrone said down beside her and hugged her gently. “Hey, it’s okay.”

  Little Rondell was so upset he couldn’t sit still. Jumped to his feet and paced his way around the entire room, shaking his head, before he returned to the seating area and came to a halt in front of Calvin. “You got her pregnant,” he said hoarsely. “You forced yourself on your own daughter.”

  Calvin crossed his arms in front of his chest defiantly. “Your mama’s lying to you, boy. Wasn’t me.”

  “It was him, little man,” Chantal cried. “I swear it. And I’m so sorry I didn’t speak up, Jamella.”

  “And yet you gave Mitch that message for me today,” Des pointed out. “Why, Chantal?”

  “Because that poor girl tried to take her own life, that’s why. Hers and her baby’s. There is no greater sin than that.”

  Tears were spilling out of Jamella’s eyes and streaming down her chiseled cheekbones. “If what you say is true…”

  “Oh, it’s true,” Chantal swore.

  “Why didn’t she come to me? I’m her big sister. I’d do anything for her. I-I don’t understand.”

  “I think I do,” said Des, who’d seen this sort of thing happen before. Too damned many times. “She didn’t come to you because she’s been blaming herself for what’s been going on. Plus she’s humiliated, ashamed and really, really frightened.” Des looked over at Calvin. “But not nearly as frightened as you. You panicked when Kinitra was admitted to the hospital, didn’t you? Especially after you found out she didn’t want you to visit her.”

  Calvin reached for his beer can and took a swig. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, sounding a bit less sure of himself now.

  “Sure you do, Calvin,” Des went on. “You had to know that the doctors would discover she was pregnant. You also had to know that once she was tucked away safe and snug, talking to the law about her situation, she’d eventually summon up enough courage to bring the hammer down on you. So when Tyrone went out for that ice cream, you cooked up a scheme on the fly. He said he’d be gone for a while, felt like clearing his head. The timing couldn’t have been more ideal. The second he walked out the door you called Andrea Halperin on her cell and told her to meet you at White Sand Beach. Then you snatched Tyrone’s Glock from his nightstand, hightailed it there on foot and shot her and Stewart Plotka, figuring if you framed Tyrone for their murders that Kinitra’s rape would land on him, too.”

  “That makes perfect sense, Master Sergeant,” Mitch said slowly. “Except I have a mighty huge icebox question for you.”

  “What’s an icebox question, Loo?” Toni asked.

  “It’s some weird Hitchcock old movie thing,” Yolie replied. “Trust me, don’t go there.”

  Des stared at him. When Mitch had an icebox question, he was not kidding around. “Okay, lay it on me.…”

  “How did Calvin know Andrea Halperin’s cell number?”

  “I ain’t saying nothing,” Calvin grumbled in response.

  “Yes, you are,” said Rondell, who in the blink of an eye no longer stood facing Calvin. He stood behind him holding a Glock 19 to Calvin’s head—a Glock 19 that he’d whipped out of the rear waistband of his slacks. He’d had it hidden under that damned Hawaiian shirt. And made his play so fast that not one of them had a chance to react. Not Des. Not Yolie. Not the Deacon. Not Toni.

  And for damned sure not Calvin, who sat there frozen and wide-eyed.

  “Don’t anybody move!” Rondell warned them. “Keep your weapons holstered or I swear I will blow his brains all over this beautiful white sofa!”

  “Whatever you say, Rondell.” Yolie’s voice was calm and quiet. “Just take it easy.”

  “I’m taking it easy!”

  “Then why don’t you put that gun down?” Des suggested. “Let’s not make this situation any worse.”

  “She’s right, little brother,” Tyrone said. “Put that thing away. This ain’t your style.”

  “My style?” Rondell shoved the Glock’s nose harder against Calvin’s head, the gun trembling in his hand. “My style is to treat a fine young lady like Miss Kinitra Jameson with respect. And just look where that got me, will you?”

  “Is that your brother’s Glock?” Des asked him. She wanted to keep him talking. Maybe cool his jets a little.

  “No, it’s my Glock,” he answered angrily. “I keep it in my desk at all times in case some nut like Stewart Plotka tries to go after him. You people made sure you asked Clarence if he kept a weapon in the house. But not one of you thought to ask me—because you think I’m a-a helpless little wonk. A weakling. You all think that.”

  “That’s not true,” Jamella said, as he continued to hold that Glock to her father’s head. “I think you’ve got a whole lot to offer. You’re smart. You’re compassionate. I’ve always said that.”

  Tyrone nodded his head. “That’s right, she has. Let the police handle this, little brother. Stop and think, will you? What in the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m taking care of myself.” Beads of sweat had formed on Rondell’s forehead. He was so overheated his glasses were practically fogging up. “That’s what you always told me a man does, right? Well, I’ve got some news for you. All of you. I’m a man. And I can take care of myself just fine.”

  “Sure you can, son,” the Deacon said. “No one in this room doubts that for one second. But what’s important right now is for you to put that gun down and let the law take over.”

  Rondell shook his head. “No, sir. I’m sorry, but this is a family matter. And I’m in charge now. So y-you answer the question, Calvin. Answer it right goddamned now.”

  Calvin gulped. “Which question?”

  “Mitch’s ice chest question.”

  “Actually, it’s an icebox question. The term dates back to when folks still owned…” Mitch broke off when he noticed Des’s warning glare. “But you can say it either way.”

  “How did you get Andrea Halperin’s cell number?” she asked Calvin.

  “She … gave me her business card at the store.” Calvin’s eyes shifted uneasily as Rondell pressed the Glock to his head. “In case I ever wanted to sell her some inside info to help her case.”

  “And did you?”

  “Naw, never.”

  “Keep talking,” Rondell commanded him.

  “About what?”

  “What you did tonight, you sick bastard!”

  “Okay, okay. I phoned that Miss Halperin, like the trooper said. Told her I might have some news to sell her. We agreed to meet in that parking lot at seven. I-I took Tyrone’s gun from his nightstand and hoofed it there, like the fellow said. Took that shortcut through the woods at the end of Sour Cherry.”

  “How did you know about that path?” Mitch asked him.

  “Cee mentioned it to me.”

  “It’s true, I did,” Clarence said.

  Rondell jabbed the Glock at him even harder. “Who made that hole in our fence?”

  “It was me,” Calvin admitted. “I can appreciate Tyrone wanting his privacy and all. But I lived inside the wire for too many years. Don’t like to be fenced in. I need to roam—without some state trooper at the front gate knowing my business. So I took some wire cutters to the thing first night they put it in. Moseyed around the neighborhood and found me this fine white girl next door who likes to paint buck naked on the sun porch after dark.”

  “Her name is Callie. Have you ever laid a hand on her?” Mitch demanded.
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  “No, sir. I looked, that’s all.”

  “You met them at the White Sand Beach parking lot,” Yolie said. “Then what happened?”

  Calvin let out a sigh. “I-I capped them, okay? Then I came straight home.”

  “Where’s the weapon?” Yolie asked.

  “Tossed it in the woods.”

  “With your prints on it?”

  “Naw, I wiped it clean. How stupid do you think I am?”

  “Don’t know yet,” she replied. “Still getting there.”

  Rondell took a ragged breath, the Glock shaking in his hand. “Was Trooper Mitry right? Did you kill those people to make it look like Tyrone was a cold-blooded murderer? A-And everyone would figure he raped Kinitra?”

  “It worked, didn’t it?” Calvin retorted. “Not a one of you believed him just now when he swore he was innocent. Not you, Jamella. Not you, Rondell. You all thought he did it. Hell, these police people were ready to take him away in cuffs until that crazy old man showed up with his mouthy friend.”

  “He’s not crazy,” Mitch said indignantly. “And I’m not mouthy. I choose my words very carefully. Force of habit. The first magazine I ever worked for only gave me fifty words to dissect an entire movie. Why, I could barely even—”

  Des said, “Mitch…”

  He moved it along. “I simply like to get to the bottom of things. Like, for instance, how long have you been raping your own daughter, Calvin?”

  “I never touched a hair on my beautiful Kinitra’s head.”

  “Try again,” Mitch urged him. “And I’d be a bit more careful about how you answer. Rondell’s hand is getting kind of twitchy. Rondell, we’re making excellent progress here. Sure you don’t want to put that thing down and have a seat?”

  “Positive,” he replied between gritted teeth.

  Jamella’s shiny eyes searched her father’s face. “Is it true, Popsy? Did you … do those things to her?”

  “Naw, girl,” Calvin said reassuringly. “You know me.”

  She flared at him suddenly. “Yeah, I know you. I know that after I got to be twelve years old you started looking at me up, down and sideways, licking your chops. That’s why Mama threw you out, wasn’t it? Because she knew you.”

  Tyrone began breathing in and out very hard. And that vein was throbbing in his forehead now. “Did he ever come near you?”

  “No, never,” she replied. “Mama made sure he never got the chance. He was out of our lives for years. And he’s been nothing but decent since you invited him to move in with us. Sure, I’ve seen him flirting with the pretty young girls by the pool. But he never got out of line. He was strictly being playful. Chantal gets upset about him watching his porn. But there isn’t a man in America who doesn’t watch porn. He’s been a good father to Kinitra and me since he moved in. Or so I thought.” She glared at Calvin. “I should have known the real deal.”

  “Which is what?” Rondell demanded, blinking at her.

  “That I’m not Daddy’s little girl anymore,” Jamella said bitterly. “I’m Tyrone’s. Huge with his child. But Kinitra’s still young and sweet and innocent. So he went after her.” She glowered at her father accusingly. “You forced yourself on my baby sister. You’ve been forcing yourself on her ever since Tyrone was kind enough to give you a nice home with us. And this is how you repay him—by trying to make him out to be a murderer a-and rapist. I’m the fool here. I kept telling myself you’d turned over a new leaf. That you weren’t the same awful scum Mama said you were. I should have known better.”

  “I should have known better, too,” Des said, glancing over at the Deacon. “You said something to me earlier today that should have set off alarm bells in my head. Only it didn’t—not until we were sitting down to dinner.”

  The Deacon frowned at her. “What did I say?”

  “That men don’t change. That they are who they are.” She looked back at Calvin. “You are a low-life street hustler who only looks out for himself—even when you’re living large in a waterfront mansion. You have no moral code and zero conscience. You helped yourself to your own daughter because you felt like it. And when things started to go south, you tried to push the blame off on the son-in-law who took you in. You’re sly and you’re devious, Calvin. But you’re not smart. The state can’t bring Tyrone to trial on the rape charge unless Kinitra swears out a criminal complaint against him. And she’d be compelled to give up a sample of her baby’s DNA—which would prove that you are the father, not Tyrone. There was no way in hell you were ever going to get away with this. Don’t you see?”

  “Wasn’t thinking that far into the future,” Calvin grumbled. “I was strictly thinking survival. Get the other cat before he gets you. I’ve spent half my life in a cage. I live by the code that I learned there, thanks to y’all. You’re the ones put me in there. You made me the man I am today.”

  “So these murders are our fault,” the Deacon said to him.

  “Absolutely.”

  Rondell’s finger tightened on the trigger. “And what about Kinitra?” he cried out, trembling with rage. “Whose fault is that?”

  “I got me a likeness for the young girls. I ain’t proud about it. But it is what it is. And I take what I want. That’s what a man does. He don’t ask for permission. He takes.”

  “She’s your own daughter, you filthy bastard!”

  “Kinitra is one fine-looking young girl. And once my blood gets to boiling, there ain’t much I can do to stop myself. The good Lord knows that. He’s always testing me. Sometimes I fail.”

  “You will die for this!” Rondell snarled.

  “We all die,” Calvin said with a shrug.

  “And we all know the truth now,” Des said. “You’ve forced it out of him, Rondell. Good job. Why don’t you let us take it from here? Just put that gun down. It’s over now.”

  “It’s not over,” Rondell said with chilling certainty.

  “You folks don’t have to worry yourselves none,” Calvin said, sneering at Rondell. “He don’t have the balls to pull that trigger. I can tell from a man’s eyes if he’s got ’em. This one’s just a little bitch.”

  “You shut up!” Rondell screamed at him.

  “Don’t do it, little brother,” Tyrone said pleadingly. “You’ll mess up your whole life.”

  “I-I have no life,” Rondell sputtered at him. “Don’t you get it? I loved her. And he destroyed her. She’s gone!”

  “She’s not gone, Rondell,” Jamella spoke up. “She’ll be home from the hospital tomorrow. And she’ll need you now more than ever.”

  “Son, I want you to listen to me,” the Deacon said. “I’ve been around a lot longer than you and I know a few things. I know that right now you can’t see how you will ever deal with your pain. But you will deal with it, I promise you—provided that you act like the responsible man you are and put down your gun. You did what needed doing just now for the girl who you love. Now let us prosecute Calvin through the proper channels. Believe me, he will pay.”

  Rondell kept the Glock pressed to Calvin’s head. “Yes, he will. He will pay right now. On your feet, Calvin.”

  Calvin’s eyes widened. “Why, what are you—?”

  “On your feet!” Rondell ordered him.

  Calvin got slowly to his feet. Rondell used the Glock to prod him over to the edge of the sofa so that he could get right behind him, his left forearm wrapped around Calvin’s throat. He was using the bigger man as a shield.

  “He will pay right now,” Rondell repeated, backing the two of them toward the rain-spattered French doors that Mitch and Winston had come through. “He will pay.” When they reached the doors, Rondell groped around with his left hand for the wall switch, flicking off the outdoor floodlights. He and Calvin were no longer backlit. There was only darkness behind them. “He will pay.”

  Rondell paused there for a brief moment now with his Glock against Calvin’s head, the two men lit from above by the beams of the ceiling track lights. There was an incredible int
ensity to that light. An incredible intensity to that moment. Neither man moved. Not one person in the whole room moved. Time seemed to stop. Everyone was frozen there in place, their eyes gleaming, faces drawn tight, bodies poised for action. For an eerie instant, Des felt as if they were all living inside “The Night Watch” by Rembrandt.

  But this was no painting.

  And Rondell’s finger on the Glock’s trigger began to move now. Not at normal speed. In slow motion. It all seemed to go down in slow motion.… The shift in Calvin’s posture as he waited for the fatal shot, expecting it, resigned to it. His eyes closing one last time as Rondell fired off the round that blew away the side of Calvin’s head. Calvin sagging to the gleaming hardwood floor, a lifeless sack of meat and bone … Until suddenly everything returned to normal speed and Rondell was dropping the gun and running out of the French doors and into the pouring rain, Monique shrieking in horror from the sofa.

  Toni was the first one out the door after him, flicking on the floodlights as she ran by, her SIG drawn. Rondell was splashing his way across the lawn down toward the beach.

  “No, don’t hurt him!” Tyrone barked as he went sprinting right past Toni, leaving her far behind. Tyrone Grantham possessed extraordinary speed for his size.

  Clarence, the former Clemson small forward, raced right past her, too. Toni dropped to one knee on the wet grass, aiming to take Rondell down with a leg shot. But she had no shot. Not with those two very large men between her and Rondell.

  “Come back, little man!” Tyrone hollered after him. “Come baaaack!”

  Jamella stood in the doorway weeping over the body of her father as he bled out onto the floor. Chantal led Monique out of the room, her hand over the traumatized girl’s eyes so she wouldn’t look at him anymore.

  The rest of them hurried across the lawn in the chilly, wind-driven rain—Yolie and Des in the lead, Mitch, the Deacon and Winston bringing up the rear.

  Rondell had made it down to the dock. He cast off the lines and jumped aboard Da Beast, which no one had bothered to cover against the rain. But Rondell didn’t care if its seats were wet. And with a varrroooooom he had its mammoth 1200-horsepower Cobra supercharged engines roaring. He was just starting to pull away when Tyrone came hurtling down the dock toward him. Tyrone didn’t stop running. He dove right off the end of the dock—only he was a fraction of a second too late. Instead of touching down aboard Da Beast with his fleeing brother, he ended up in the river with a tremendous splash.