by Brenda Novak
Instead of leaving, he did what he could to distract the others by acting as if he thought someone was coming to the door, so he could get rid of most of his rock by fishing it out of the bowl and crushing it into the carpet. But he had to smoke some, and he had to admit he’d never experienced such a rush. Pot just wasn’t the same. A lot of years had passed since he’d experienced even that.
The euphoria streaking through him sent his nervous system into high gear, made his heart race and his senses grow keen and receptive. It would’ve been easy to succumb to the pleasure, but he knew he had to keep his wits about him, remember why he was here. Sebastian had been high on crystal meth when he killed Charlie. Rod would be a fool to assume he’d be any less dangerous just because he seemed to be enjoying himself. Drugs affected people in different ways at different times.
Truth was, Sebastian could be more dangerous. And he had his wife and brother with him, who’d most likely do anything they could to cover up any crime he committed. If the next few hours went badly, they’d probably help bury Rod’s body.
Rod made a joke Dylan had repeated to him earlier about two computer nerds, and they all started to laugh. He laughed, too. The laughter came easy, while most of the other pretense had not. So he told a few more jokes.
“I like you, man,” Sebastian said. “You’re an okay dude.”
Rod got up to pace around. He felt bulletproof, as if he could conquer the world, and he supposed that was a good thing. Sebastian liked him now, but if Sebastian turned on him, he might need the added acuity and strength.
“Where you going?” Eddie asked.
Rod gestured at the hallway. “There a bathroom down here?”
“Yeah, on your right.”
He didn’t really have to go; he just needed something to do, some outlet for all his energy. He also needed to figure out some way to get to Sheila’s nephew, to talk to him. But how? He didn’t want to be caught in the boy’s room, didn’t want to be mistaken for a pedophile. And what would he say to Van? “Hey, wake up. It’s me again. Any chance you know where Sebastian hid his gun?”
The boy might be young, but he wasn’t stupid.
Deciding he’d be better off biding his time, Rod returned to the living room, where Sebastian and the others were continuing to smoke. Since he probably wouldn’t get to talk to Van tonight, he was hoping he’d have the opportunity to talk to Sheila. Depending on how disgruntled, trusting or just plain stupid she was, she might be a good source of information. But with every single nerve in his body firing at once, he couldn’t sit still. The only thing that kept him from flying too high was the TV. The colors seemed unnaturally bright, which he found sort of fascinating. That gave him something to focus on to help him ride out the drug.
Unfortunately, coming down took much longer than he’d anticipated. The last time Rod remembered glancing at the clock, it was nearly five, and Sebastian and the others were still partying. They were like rats, pressing a lever that gave them a reward. They wouldn’t abandon the lever until there was nothing left.
At least they were no longer paying much attention to him. That relieved some of the pressure, even though he couldn’t really do anything while they were all there together.
He tried isolating Sheila by asking if she had something he could eat. He wanted to draw her into the kitchen, where they could talk without being overheard. But she waved him off, told him to help himself to anything he could find. She was as much of a tweaker as Sebastian was, afraid they’d smoke the rest of the crystal if she took a break.
Then, just when he was thinking he should probably leave, that India would be too worried if he stayed longer, he must’ve fallen asleep. Because when he woke up, he was lying on the couch alone with the sun blazing through a crack in the draperies.
A knock sounded, and he realized what had disturbed him. Someone was at the door.
Rod hesitated, wondering if one of the household’s regular inhabitants would come from the back to answer. But no one did, so he got up—and found a worried Frank Siddell on the doorstep. As soon as Frank saw Rod, his expression changed—filled with relief. But he said nothing to give away the fact that they knew each other.
“Hey, I live across the street over there.” He gestured as if someone else could see them. “Just wanted to tell you that you have a broken sprinkler that’s been shooting up like a geyser every morning.”
“I don’t live here,” Rod told him, “but I’ll tell the people who do.”
“Great. Thanks. With what we have to pay for water, I thought you’d like to know,” he said and walked away as if he was merely doing his neighborly duty.
Breathing a long sigh, Rod stood in the entry. He wanted to text India, but he knew Frank would reassure her, that Frank had come on her request. And he didn’t want to be holding his phone if Sebastian walked out of the back bedroom to see who’d been at the door.
He shouldn’t have worried. Sebastian didn’t appear. Neither did Eddie or Sheila. The noise roused only the kids. Two little girls came out of a room—one dragging a blanket behind her and the other sucking her thumb.
Rod was surprised that they barely looked at him. They didn’t approach him the way most kids would, didn’t speak to him, either. They showed no curiosity or interest at all. They just found a channel showing a cartoon and sat down to watch.
Obviously, having a stranger in the house was nothing unusual. Rod was considering getting Van out of bed. But that didn’t turn out to be necessary. Van appeared of his own volition a few seconds later. Although he seemed groggy—had the waffle-like imprint of a blanket on his cheek and his hair was mussed—he took one look at Rod and then Rod’s cast and stopped short.
“Hey, are you the guy—”
Rod interrupted before he could finish. “Good morning. Sleep well?”
He nodded but was distracted when his cousins begged him for food.
Van went to the kitchen and got them each a bowl of cold cereal, which he put down in front of them. Then he offered Rod some.
Rod was impressed. He could tell there wasn’t much cereal left. He was afraid these children weren’t getting the nutrition they needed. Meth addicts often went without food for long periods, since the drug suppressed appetite. Rod wasn’t about to take the little they did have. “No. I’m not hungry,” he said. “You eat it. Then maybe we can go out and throw a baseball. Would you like to do that?”
His eyes widened. “You mean...you and me?”
“Sure. Why not? It’d beat sitting here watching these lame cartoons, wouldn’t it?”
He grinned. “Heck, yeah!”
“You have a mitt?”
His face fell. “No. I don’t ever get to play baseball.”
“Then we can buy you a mitt. There’s got to be a store around here somewhere.”
“You’re going to buy me a mitt?”
“If you’d like one.”
He looked around as if he thought this must be a setup, and Rod felt terrible that, in a way, it was. “Sure. But I’m not very good, not like the other boys at school.”
“All it takes is practice. Why don’t you ask Sheila if you can go to the store with me?”
“I can’t.”
“Go to the store?”
“Ask. She won’t be up until a lot later. And I’ll get in big trouble if I bother her or Sebastian while they’re sleeping.”
“Then you’d better stay here while I go grab the mitt. So you don’t get into any trouble.”
“I can go with you,” he said. “They won’t care. Not if I don’t wake them up.”
Rod suspected that was the truth but still felt he should leave him behind. It wasn’t right to take someone’s kid without asking. But Sebastian or Eddie could be up when he got back, could insist on going out to throw with them or come sit on the porch
to watch. That meant he might never have another chance to really talk to Van.
He’d risked this much; it was time to go all in.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s get in the truck.”
26
Eddie had to meet his supplier. That meant he had to drag his ass out of bed and get showered. “Yogi,” as the man called himself, wasn’t a thug. He worked downtown San Francisco, in the financial district. Selling crystal meth helped him maintain an enviable lifestyle, one that included owning a yacht and jetting off to Paris at will, and he took all sources of income seriously. He wasn’t a user; he was far too much of a health fanatic for that. This dude had his life in control. He just didn’t have any compunction about making money off those who weren’t quite so disciplined.
“What’s wrong with people these days?” he’d say. “It’s such a lie that drug dealers are ruining lives. We’re not forcing this shit on anyone. At what point can we expect people to take responsibility for their own actions? If they’re stupid enough to destroy their bodies and brains by smoking stuff they know is harmful, that’s their problem. It’s not as if people haven’t been warned. The dangers of drugs are plastered all over billboards from here to New York City! Sixth-graders have been taught to avoid this shit!”
His philosophy made it easier for Eddie to sleep at night. But he hated Yogi. The guy was a coldhearted bastard who would never make any exceptions or concessions. When Eddie had shown up late for their last meeting, he’d been put on “probation,” which meant he’d be fired if he was ever late again. Late! As if that was such a big deal!
Eddie was tempted to take the fat stack of cash he had to turn in and skip town. Losing ten grand might make Yogi think twice about treating his dealers like bottom-feeders. But the money wouldn’t last forever, and Eddie was too afraid Yogi would catch up with him. As “civilized” as Yogi pretended to be, Eddie had no doubt he’d resort to very drastic punishment, maybe even murder. After having him killed, Yogi would probably say, “He knew the rules. He chose to break them.” With Yogi, it was infraction, punishment, period.
But now that Sebastian was back home, and the cops were driving through the neighborhood all the time, perhaps watching the house, Eddie was afraid he’d be followed. Yogi had warned him that they might try to get him on a drug charge so they could make a deal—information on Sebastian in exchange for a lighter sentence—and that worried Eddie. He could wind up going to prison because he wouldn’t rat on his brother. And if he went to prison, he’d be even more vulnerable than the average inmate. Yogi wouldn’t tolerate him screwing up like that after he’d been warned; Yogi would be too worried he’d eventually rat him out.
Eddie needed to move, get away from his brother. But he hadn’t expected Sebastian to ever be released. That he’d gotten off was a miracle.
Eddie felt better after a shower—until he found out the kids had eaten all the damn cereal. “What the hell? You didn’t save me any?” he said, glaring at the two little girls sitting in front of the TV.
Matilda and Peggy blinked up at him but turned back to their cartoon without answering. He hated it when they did that—looked through him as if he wasn’t there. What happened to respect? They deserved a good spanking, which he’d be more than happy to deliver.
“I asked you a question. Did you hear me?”
Matilda, the older, flinched when he raised his hand and finally answered. “Van got it out for us. We didn’t know we couldn’t have it.”
“Van’s awake?” he said. “Where is that pain in the ass?”
“He went outside with some guy.” Peggy still had her hands up, as if she might have to fend off a blow.
“What guy?”
“I don’t know.”
He walked over to the window, parted the drapes and saw a big blue truck parked at the curb. Rod Cunningham, the guy who’d partied with them last night, owned it. He hadn’t gone home? Why the hell not? And what was he doing with Van?
A trickle of unease ran down Eddie’s spine. Why had that guy taken an interest in Sheila’s kids? Was he some kind of sexual pervert?
No way. They’d hung with him last night. He’d seemed cool. A guy like Rod could get just about any woman he wanted. Why would he be interested in kids? And he couldn’t be working for the cops. He’d known Dave at the pool hall, hadn’t he?
Eddie remembered that little wave, the one he hadn’t bothered to check out, and could already feel Yogi’s disapproval. He should’ve been more careful. So what if the dude smoked some crystal with them last night? An undercover cop would go that far, wouldn’t he? Undercovers had to do something to be believable or they’d be too easy to spot.
“Shit.” He went outside to see what was going on, but he didn’t have to go far. Rod was teaching Van how to throw a ball in the vacant lot kitty-corner to them. Eddie could hear him yelling, “No, put your opposite foot forward. That’s it. That’ll give you more power. Now let me see what you’ve got.”
Neither of them seemed to notice that he’d come out of the house, so Eddie walked over to Rod’s truck, which blocked him from view, and took a peek inside. Except for a Starbucks cup, a sack and some packaging from the sporting goods store where he’d apparently bought the athletic equipment he and Van were using, it looked fairly clean. The doors were locked, but whoever had gotten out of the passenger door hadn’t shut it tightly enough to latch.
Eddie opened it and poked around. Found some papers stuffed under the seat. They were work orders from some place called Amos Auto Body in Whiskey Creek, California. Did Rod work there? Because he’d said his cousin owned the auto body shop where he was working and it was nearby.
They had to come from his work, Eddie decided. They weren’t for his truck; they were for all different makes and models. So maybe they were from a previous job. But then, why would he keep them?
“Hold on! You’re using the wrong foot again,” Rod yelled to Van.
Eddie opened the glove box. Inside, he found a pack of gum, an owner’s manual, a tire pressure gauge, a box of condoms and the DMV paperwork for the truck. He expected to find Rod Cunningham as the registered owner, but the slip read Rodney Amos—like the Amos in the company name on those work orders—and had an address in Whiskey Creek.
What the hell? Why didn’t the names match? And where was Whiskey Creek?
He glanced at his watch. He had to get going.
After folding up the registration and one of those work orders, he shoved them in his pocket. Then he put everything back in Rod’s glove box and hurried inside the house to brush his teeth and get his keys.
Before he left, he woke Sebastian. “Something’s going on with that guy you brought home last night,” he said.
Scratching his head, Sebastian squinted up at him. “What’re you talking about?” he mumbled, still half-asleep.
Sheila stirred in the bed beside him but didn’t wake completely. With a groan, she rolled over as if she didn’t appreciate the noise. Eddie didn’t care if he disturbed her. It was about time she got her ass out of bed so she could take care of her kids. Maybe Van wouldn’t be out playing ball with a total stranger if she was any kind of mother.
“That guy? The guy who said his name was Rod Cunningham?” Eddie said.
Sebastian yawned. “Yeah? What about him?”
“I don’t think Cunningham’s his real name. It’s Rod Amos.”
As those words registered, Sebastian sat up—and the sleepiness fell away. “What makes you say that?”
Eddie pulled Rod’s registration and that work order out of his pocket and threw them both on the bed. “This stuff.”
“What is it?”
“The registration on his truck and some auto body work order.”
“You checked his registration?”
“I went through his glove box.” Eddie had
no more time to explain. “I gotta go. I’ll come back as soon as I can. Meanwhile, you better hope he isn’t a cop.”
Sebastian peered at the documents. “He’s not a cop. Cops don’t work out of their own jurisdiction. And Whiskey Creek has nothing to do with Charlie Sommers.”
“Then maybe he’s not a cop. Maybe he’s another private investigator. Charlie Sommers’s parents have the money to hire an army of them, and they’ve hired a few over the past year. I told you that when you were in jail we had guys sniffing around here all the time, trying to talk us into giving up something that would get the charges against you to stick.”
The blood drained from Sebastian’s face. “Oh, shit...”
“Exactly. You need to get your ass out of bed and deal with this now,” Eddie said. “Check him out real good, because if I get arrested, I’m going to tell the cops everything I know. No way I’m going to prison ’cause you let the wrong guy get too close.”
“He came right into our house. Smoked some crystal with us, man. That’s ballsy,” Sebastian marveled, his voice filled with shock.
“Don’t let him become a problem.”
“Where is he now?”
“Outside, playing ball with Van.”
“He’s what?”
“You heard me,” Eddie said and rushed out.
* * *
Frustrating though it was, Rod hadn’t been able to get any information out of Van.
The boy knew something. He was holding back; Rod could feel it. But no matter how often Rod brought up the night Charlie was murdered, Van wouldn’t talk about it. Rod guessed he’d been upset when he’d said what he did before, and now that he was calm, he was too afraid to talk about the adults in his life.
Getting him to open up would take some time. He’d have to build the boy’s confidence and trust—maybe more than he’d initially believed. He still considered it worth the effort. The anger in this child, the outrage, would eventually cause the truth to come out. But that was more likely to happen when Van was a teenager or an adult and he felt less threatened.
