Buckthorn nodded. “Evan and Earl Powell were found today after apparently escaping from their abductor. They used a cell phone to call 911. They appear to be in good health, but they’re going to be taken to a hospital to be checked out.”
“Is the person who abducted them in custody?”
Buckthorn glanced involuntarily at the ambulance pulling away. “No comment” was all he said.
“Lieutenant,” Gaby said, “was the body just taken out of here under that blanket the person who kidnapped the Powell boys?”
Buckthorn’s face hardened. “That’s all the comment I can make right now,” he said. “We’ll have a full statement later.” He walked off, leaving Gaby and Howard behind.
“Gaby,” Stella’s voice came through the headset, “do you think the cops killed the guy who took those boys?”
“I don’t know,” Gaby said. “I don’t think so. He—that Buckthorn guy—he said they’d escaped. If it was the police that did it, he would have said they’d been rescued.”
“Jesus,” Stella said. “What if it was one of the boys who killed him?”
Howard and Gaby looked at each other. There was nothing to say to that.
THE PARTY was in full swing, ebbing and flowing around the guest of honor parked to one side of the living room. All of the old crew were there, flying their colors on their sleeveless leather jackets. There were some faces Johnny didn’t recognize. A few of the men had their girls with them, but it was a mostly male crowd. The music, a mix of heavy metal and southern rock, was loud to the point of being painful. Johnny sat in his wheelchair, watching, savoring the aromas of beer and pot smoke that filled the room. He’d been gone a long time.
Every few minutes, another reveler would approach. There would be some variation on the theme of “welcome home” combined with an awkward pat, sometimes on the shoulder, but more often on the back of the chair, as if the well-wisher were afraid to touch him, as if paralysis were contagious. Some would not even meet his eyes. Johnny kept his face empty, the way he had learned to do inside. He hated them. He was surprised at how deeply he hated them all.
“John-nay!” A body crashed heavily into the lounger next to the wheelchair. A heavyset young man with his dirty blond hair cut short and spiked grinned drunkenly at him. A joint dangled from one corner of his mouth. You havin’ fun?”
“S’okay,” Johnny Trent said.
“You looks tired, my bruth-ah,” his cousin Clay replied. “We needs to get you a little pick-me-up.” He lit the joint, took a long drag, then put it between his cousin’s lips. Johnny inhaled as deeply as he could. The smoke burned his lungs, but he held the hit in, not wanting to seem weak. Clay’s grin got wider. “There you go. It’s gonna be just like old times, man.” Johnny started to cough violently, the smoke exploding between his lips into Clay’s face. Clay flinched, then made a grab for the still-burning joint as it fell into Johnny’s lap. Clay beat at the sparks as Johnny coughed. A few people nearby stared. A couple laughed. “Always knew you two had a thing for each other,” a voice said from the crowd.
Clay stood up, his face suddenly purple with rage. “Who said that?” he demanded. Then, louder, “Who the fuck said that?” The crowd fell silent, leaving only the music blasting.
“Clay,” Johnny croaked, his cough subsiding but his voice still ragged. “Ease up, man.” Not that he cared if Clay beat the fuck out of the comedian, but he knew it wouldn’t stop there, any more than a hurricane would stop before its fury was spent. “Dude. It was a joke, it’s nothing.” Clay continued to stare at the crowd for a moment, his expression promising mayhem. No one looked back.
After a moment, Clay looked back at Johnny and his face broke into another grin, a little more forced this time. “Okay, cuz,” Clay said. The jollity in his voice was as forced as his smile, but the crowd accepted it with a visible ripple of relief. Conversation resumed.
“Sorry, dude,” Clay said as he sat back down. “But da-yum, we got to get you back into shape.”
“Guess I just can’t do what I used to,” Johnny said.
Clay leaned forward, his eyes suddenly blazing. “Don’t say that, man,” he said in a low, intense voice. “Don’t ever say that. It’s gonna be just like it used to. Nothing’s changed, man, nothing.”
Johnny stared at him for a moment. The harsh buzz of the doorbell interrupted him before he could speak. Clay’s expression lost its intensity. Now his eyes were dancing with mischief. “You’ll see what I mean in a minute.” He stood up and walked to the door. He gestured to someone across the room, who turned the music down. “Who is it?” Clay asked in an exaggerated singsong falsetto.
“Pizza delivery,” a female voice answered. Johnny was puzzled to see a couple of the other guys in the group nudging one another and grinning. Clay threw the door open with a flourish.
A young woman stood there, holding a pizza box at shoulder height. There, however, the resemblance to a delivery person ended. She was heavily made up, her brown hair moussed and sprayed to a stiff cloud around her face. She was dressed in a long brown trench coat that fell to below her knees. “Hot delivery for Mr. Johnny Trent,” she cooed as she sashayed into the room. Several of the guys pointed at Johnny, snorting with laughter. A couple of the girlfriends looked upset. The professional smile dropped off the woman’s face; she glued it quickly back on. Someone fumbled with the CD player, and then the opening chords of a DMX rap number blasted through the room. The “pizza girl” dropped the box and shucked off the trench coat in one movement. She was dressed in a sheer red teddy and a bra and garter belt. The men and a couple of the women whooped. One of the girlfriends stormed from the room as the dancer began moving toward Johnny. He pasted a leer on his face, hating her, hating Clay for his stupidity. Or is it? he thought. Is that cocksucker dissing me? He saw the sloppy grin on Clay’s face and decided. No. He’s not smart enough. He thinks he’s doing me a favor. Dumb-ass. His hatred was a general, impersonal thing, nurtured and grown inside the prison hospital like a rare orchid in a hothouse. He hated anyone with functioning legs.
The girl was right up on him now. She had shed the teddy and her bra and was waving her tits in front of him. They were rigid and unmoving despite the girl’s undulations. Obviously a boob job, and not a good one. She smelled of powder and cheap perfume. He took a deep breath, taking pleasure in a scent he hadn’t experienced in over five years. Some of the guys were chanting now: “Lap dance! Lap dance!” they crowed.
Johnny looked up at the girl. The smile had slipped a notch. She had a trapped, almost panicky look in her eyes as she gripped the arms of his chair and wiggled. She was wondering how to settle herself down onto his crotch. He savored her discomfort more than her scent. He had a brief fantasy of taking a flamethrower to her, to all of them, hearing them scream, watching them burn and try to run and fall down, burning . . .
Something must have slipped though into his eyes. The girl stepped back. She stopped dancing. There was a rumble of discontent from the crowd.
“Um, look,” the girl said, shouting a little to be heard over the beat. “I’m sorry, but no one said nothing to me about no cripple . . .”
The whooping and jeering fell silent; only the music still blared. Clay walked over to her, no longer smiling, and backhanded her across the face. She screamed and collapsed at Johnny’s feet, bleeding from a cut on her cheek.
Johnny noted that the few women who’d remained after the girl started dancing had now fled as well. The atmosphere in the room had changed. The previous good-time aura had been replaced with a darker, more menacing feeling.
“Bitch,” Clay said, his smile gone, “what did you call my man here?”
The girl looked up with the glazed expression of an animal in a trap. She knew the drill, knew that any answer would bring another blow.
But so would no answer. Clay kicked her brutally in the ribs. “Answer me!” he screamed. She grunted and tried to curl up. Clay bent down and grabbed a handful of her hair. She screa
med in pain as he used her hair as a handle to yank her onto her knees.
“I think you owe my man Johnny an apology,” he said, his voice silky and dangerous.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” the girl stammered, tears running down her cheeks. She looked at Johnny’s face, searching for a hint of compassion. She found none. “I’m sorry!” she sobbed.
Johnny stared down at her. Five years ago, a scene like this would have given him a hard-on the size of the Hindenburg, but he hadn’t felt anything below his chest for that whole time. He wanted to kill her. He wanted to tell Clay to break her fucking neck. But he didn’t know everybody here. He didn’t know who could be trusted to keep their mouth shut. So he swallowed the anger, adding it like fuel to the furnace of rage inside him.
“Clay,” a voice said. All heads turned. A man was standing in the doorway. He was in his early fifties, with streaks of gray shot through his thick black hair and beard. He was dressed in a subdued but expensive-looking gray suit. A diamond pinky ring glinted on his finger. His lined face bore an expression of longsuffering exasperation.
“She said she was sorry,” the older man said. “Don’t fuck her up so bad she can’t work.”
Clay released the girl’s hair like a child dropping a stolen cookie. He looked down sullenly. “You said you weren’t coming over till later,” he mumbled.
The man ignored him. He walked over to the girl and lifted her chin with his finger. He examined the swelling bruise on her cheek. He tsk’d at her. “Chloe, isn’t it?” he said conversationally.
“Y-yes, Mr. Trent,” the girl whispered.
“You’re a pretty good earner, I hear,” Nathan Trent said. “And now my idiot son has let his temper get away from him again. You can’t dance like that.” He dropped her chin and turned to Clay, who was still staring at the floor. “Her earnings are coming out of your pay till she gets back to work,” he said. “Understand?” Clay mumbled something. “Understand?” Nathan roared.
Clay looked up, his face expressionless. “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Nathan said. “Now, I need to talk to Johnny for a bit.” He looked around to where the rest of the men were shuffling their feet and looking uncomfortable. “The rest of you boys have fun.” He noticed the girl picking up her clothes from the floor. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he said mildly.
She looked up, a panicky expression on her face. “I . . . I was just leaving . . .”
Nathan Trent sighed the sigh of an employer surrounded by idiots. “I said you couldn’t dance,” he snapped. “I know damn well you were hired for more than that.” He turned to Clay and raised a warning finger. “Remember,” he said, “no more marks.”
Clay’s eyes glinted. “Don’t worry, Dad,” he said. He looked down at the cowering girl, smiling unpleasantly. “Just good clean fun and games.”
Nathan smiled thinly. “Good,” he said. “Come with me,” he said to Johnny. He walked down the hallway toward the back bedrooms.
The motorized wheelchair whirred and groaned as Johnny used the joystick to maneuver down the hallway behind his uncle. The chair was slow; Nathan was seated on the edge of the bed by the time Johnny got there.
“It’s good to see you,” he said.
Johnny nodded. “Thanks for all you’ve done,” he said.
Nathan waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “I’m just sorry it took so long,” he said. “Five years is a long time to spend in a prison hospital.”
“Yeah,” Johnny said. “It is.”
Nathan sighed. “Compassionate release should have been a nobrainer considering . . . well. Considering your condition,” he said. “But there were people who thought they could use you as leverage to get to me. Some of them may have thought you’d give me up in order to get out.”
“I didn’t,” Johnny said.
“I know,” Nathan said. “And believe me, I appreciate that kind of loyalty. And I reward it.”
“I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate it,” Johnny said. “Not only arranging the CR. The other stuff. The van, the ramps at the house. All that.”
Nathan nodded slightly. “Anything you need?”
Johnny leaned forward slightly. “You know what I want,” he said. “There’s only one thing in this world I want.”
Nathan sighed. “I know, Johnny,” he said. “You’re not the only one he fucked over, you know. He took off with a shitload of my money.”
“He didn’t take your legs,” Johnny spat.
“I know, John, I know. We’ve looked for him. All over. It’s like he disappeared off the face of the earth.”
“Maybe he went into witness protection,” Johnny said.
Nathan shook his head. “No,” he said decisively. “He never testified. Besides, if he’d gone that route . . .”
“What?”
“I’d have known,” Nathan said. “Just leave it at that.”
“Still got your guy on the inside, then?” Johnny said, too casually. Nathan’s voice sharpened. “I said leave it,” he snapped. Then he smiled. He stood up, straightening his cuffs as he did so. “Believe me, Johnny, we’ll find him. He’ll fuck up. He’ll do something to call attention to himself. And when he does . . .” He made a quick slashing motion across his throat.
“I don’t want him dead,” Johnny said. Nathan looked surprised. “You don’t?”
“No,” Johnny said. “I want you to take his legs from him. Like he took mine. I want him to live like I live.”
Nathan’s smile was the grin of a shark opening its mouth to devour. “Damn,” he said, “but I like the way you think, Johnny. You always were the one with the brains. Not like . . .” He stopped, sighed, and moved to the door. “I need to see if we can find you something,” he said. “A mind like yours can’t go to waste.”
Johnny knew it was an empty promise. There was no work in the Brotherhood for a man with a pair of useless legs. At that moment, Johnny Trent hated his uncle most of all.
SANDERS’S HOUSE stood at the top of a tall ridge, dead center in the middle of what was still known as “the Jacobs land.” In the 1930s, Arlie Jacobs had been the largest landowner in Gibson County, making his considerable fortune farming tobacco and hay. Harsher times, hapless descendants, and rising property taxes had caused the land to fall away and out of the family, until what had once been practically a plantation was whittled down to just an old farmhouse in the center of ten acres. The house had originally been built in 1863, but it was still solid.
Even though he didn’t farm the land, Sanders kept the fields clear of brush and weeds, mowing the grass twice a month with the tractor-pulled mower that he kept in the barn. He had also removed all the shrubbery, including a stand of crepe myrtle that had been the previous owner’s pride and joy. From his windows, Sanders could look away down the long slopes of the ridge, at greenery trimmed as close as the fairway on a golf course. Some of the locals found his obsession with keeping such a huge plot of land so neatly groomed to be more than a little odd; others nodded with approval. It wasn’t a desire to be tidy that kept Sanders at the hot, dusty task of mowing, though. No one could approach the house unseen.
Sanders drove up the long driveway, a plume of dust rising behind the truck. He stopped under one of the huge oak trees that flanked the front porch. He took a deep breath. His hands were clenched so tightly on the wheel that they were almost numb. Slowly, he unwrapped his bloodless fingers from the wheel. He leaned back and closed his eyes. He could feel himself begin to shake, as if a fever were robbing him of muscle control. He let it wash over him. He knew it would pass; it always did. He regarded it as the payback his body took for not betraying him in moments of high stress.
After a few minutes, he felt the trembling subside. He opened his eyes. As the adrenaline slowly drained out of him, he felt logical thought return. What the hell had he been thinking? Did he really expect the two kids to keep quiet about the man who had burst in with a blazing gun and killed their kidnapper? Still
, he thought, they didn’t know him. There was nothing to connect him with anything local.
He looked at the house. It wasn’t a particularly lovely structure; Arlie Jacobs had been a blunt, plain man with little patience for aesthetics. It was a utilitarian two-story box. Further, it had been a major pain in the ass to get back into shape. The previous owner, a grandson of the builder, had had a long decline before he had gotten bad enough to move to the hospital, where he died six weeks after leaving the land. The house had gone downhill with him, and Sanders, unused to handyman work, had sweated and cursed and done himself half a dozen minor injuries before the place had become halfway livable. Yet for some reason, Sanders found himself strangely unwilling to leave. The feeling surprised him. He had never been sentimental about places.
Sanders got out of the truck. He decided that there was no need to run from this place just yet. Still, there were preliminary steps he could take.
He went into the house. The interior design was as simple and uncomplicated as the outside. A wide entrance hall divided after a few feet into a stairway on the left and a hallway on the right that ran to the back of the house. A doorway off the hall to Sanders’s right led to a small parlor. He fumbled a key out of his pocket and unlocked one of the cabinets that lined the walls of the room. He removed a rifle with a telescopic sight and a web sling. He slung it over his shoulder. A short-barreled pump-action shotgun was next, and he slung that over the other shoulder. He went upstairs to the bedroom. He leaned the rifle against the dresser next to the bedroom window. The shotgun went next to the bedroom door. He went back downstairs. He took another ri-
fle and shotgun out of the cabinet and laid them on the rough wood table in the dining room to the left of the hallway. He returned to the cabinet and equipped himself with a pair of 9 mm pistols, brothers to the one in the truck. He slung them into a pair of shoulder holsters and went to a hall closet underneath the stairs. He pulled out a duffel bag, already packed. The bag contained several changes of clothing. It also held a set of identification papers—driver’s license, Social Security card, and passport—in a name different from Sanders. He shouldered the duffel bag and walked outside to the barn.
Breaking Cover (Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn) Page 3
