by Zoey Parker
Hunter closed his eyes and grimaced. He wished she hadn't asked that. He was pretty sure that if she knew, she'd be able to figure out who they were up against, and it would worry the fuck out of her.
Still, he had told her to keep an eye out.
“Anyone who looks like they're loitering or checking the place out,” Hunter said, “but probably Mexican guys with a lot of tattoos, mostly.”
Another pause, stonier this time.
“Like Gaspar's boys,” she said flatly without any hint of question.
Hunter sighed. “Yeah.”
“Fuck,” Missy hissed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. We should pick up and leave town right now, tonight, or even leave the state. Jesus, if Gaspar's on our asses, we should probably leave the country and go set up shop in fucking Canada.”
“Gaspar ain't no boogeyman,” Hunter said, trying to sound reassuring. “He's just a man like the rest of us.”
“Yeah, except he's got about a zillion other men to hide behind.”
“I'm sure I can get us out of this,” insisted Hunter. “But to do that, I need to make sure Cain's out of the action instead of out there stirring up more shit.”
“Fine,” Missy said. “I just really hope you know what you're doing.” She hung up.
“Me too, sis,” Hunter said, slipping the phone back into his pocket.
But he wasn't so sure.
Chapter 12
Missy
Missy got up and pulled her clothes back on, swearing under her breath.
It was bad enough that she had to babysit Cain, knowing full well exactly how little he'd enjoy that prospect and how unpleasant he was likely to act toward her about it. But now she also had to worry about Gaspar and his animals turning up.
She hadn't been at the Knife when Gaspar and Hunter negotiated their truce, so she'd never actually seen Gaspar's face. That was one of the many times that Hunter had insisted she stay away from the darker side of the club's business for her own good. She'd spent the entire evening pacing the kitchen floor nervously until she'd heard from Hunter that everything had gone smoothly.
But Missy knew that Gaspar was an emissary of the Barros Cartel, whose atrocities often made the news along with footage of the Mexican towns they'd turned into smoldering wastelands.
And she knew about what happened over in Braintree.
When Gaspar first came into Dipper County eighteen months ago, the local source for coke and heroin had been a wealthy dairy farmer named Tip Tibbons. Tip's field of cows was just outside of Braintree. For over a decade and a half, he'd received regular shipments of the stuff from a crime family in Chicago and used his delivery drivers as dealers. He paid off Sheriff Hemmick regularly like most of the serious lawbreakers in the county did, and as a result, he was permitted to do business with impunity.
Then Gaspar and his men came to town and paid Tip a visit to let him know they'd be taking over the coke and H distribution in the county. They gave him the choice of either accepting their packages instead of the ones from Chicago—and paying him sixty percent of their profits—or shutting down his whole operation. Tip, whose father had taught him never to back down or take any shit from fools, told Gaspar he'd sooner roast in hell than roll over for, in his words, “a bunch of greasy spic pimps.” He spit a mouthful of chewing tobacco on Gaspar's boots as a final insult.
Two days later, when a convoy of Tip's drivers made their way up the old dirt road leading to the dairy farm so they could make their regular pick-up, what they found looked like something out of a horror movie.
Every cow in the field had been methodically hacked to pieces, their limbs and hides strewn across the grass like a red carpet.
Tip, his wife Vernice, and their seven-year-old son Taylor had been hung from an oak tree in the front yard and lit on fire. The drivers had looked up at the charred, swinging corpses, their faces frozen in terror as birds pecked at the dead faces above them.
The crime was never investigated, which sent a very clear message indicating that Sheriff Hemmick knew which side his bread would be buttered on from that point forward. The Tibbons homestead still stood empty to this day, and most of the locals claimed it was haunted.
Missy finished dressing, slipped her shoes on, and headed down into the basement. She found an old duffel bag, took a small key from its hook on the wall, and opened a tall metal cabinet in the corner. All of Hunter's guns hung inside, along with several of her own. There were revolvers, semi-automatics, hunting rifles, a sawed-off shotgun, and even a huge, lethal-looking AR-15 that had never been fired except when Hunter took it to the range now and then.
Missy wished she could take them all.
Instead, she contented herself with a .38 snub nose, a box of hollow point rounds, the sawed-off, and about two dozen shotgun shells, placing them all in the bag. She briefly considered the AR, but she'd never used it before and she didn't trust all of its shiny moving parts. For reliability, it was better to stick with weapons that were basic and brutal.
She started to close the cabinet, then paused and looked inside one more time. A massive, sheathed hunting knife caught her eye and she grabbed it, clipping it to the side of her belt. She hoped she wouldn't get close enough to use it.
“Still, better to have a knife and not need it than to need a knife and not have it,” she said out loud. “Now before I go, is there anything else in here that could possibly save my ass, like a chainsaw or a grenade launcher? A hydrogen bomb, maybe?”
Nope. Just the same set of firearms staring back at her blankly, and looking like a sad collection of cheap toys compared to the kind of firepower she knew the Barros boys had access to.
Well, shit, she thought. It'll just have to do.
Missy locked up the cabinet and headed back upstairs. She hopped into her car and drove the short distance to Cain's house as the sun started to sink. When she got there, she pulled into the short driveway and got out, taking the bag with her and wondering whether she should have brought anything. Food? She didn't know what Cain liked to eat. Stuff for him to read or watch if he got bored? Same problem.
As Missy walked up to the house, she heard a sharp smacking sound on the street behind her. She flinched and spun around, her hand reaching into the open bag and closing around the snub nose.
A tall boy with black hair was staring at her as he practiced jumps on a battered old skateboard. He looked Hispanic, and Missy's arms started to search his skinny arms for gang-related tattoos before taking a closer look at his face. She recognized him and instantly relaxed—his name was Fernando, he bagged groceries at the Food Mart downtown, and he was sixteen years old. She'd seen his family around town for years, and she inwardly kicked herself for racial profiling.
Still, it wasn't like Gaspar's gang was particularly ethnically diverse, and she didn't feel like dying over pangs of political correctness.
“You looking at something, Fernando?” Missy asked.
“You,” he replied, still jumping on his skateboard. Each time, it came down on the pavement with a ragged thwack. “Is that your boyfriend's house?”
“No,” Missy said. “I don't have a boyfriend.”
“You want one?” Fernando asked. Jump. Thwack. Stare.
Missy let out a derisive snort. “Don't you have homework to do, kid?”
“Nah. Already did it.” Jump. Thwack. Stare.
“Well, go watch some cartoons or something, then,” Missy snickered.
Fernando shrugged and rode his skateboard down the street, stopping for a jump in front of every other house.
On the other hand, at least the kid was more polite to me than Cain probably will be, Missy thought wryly.
She stepped up onto the porch and peered in through the front window. Through the smudged and dusty glass, she could see Cain lying on the couch, watching TV. He was still wearing the bloody clothes he'd had on last night.
Missy tapped on the pane with her fingernail and Cain jumped, his eyes wide. His good arm reached for a .357 re
volver resting on the table in front of him, but he relaxed when he saw who it was.
“What is it?” he called out. His voice sounded thick and sluggish, and Missy remembered the medications he was on.
“I'm coming in, okay?” Missy called back.
Cain hesitated for a moment, and she could see in his eyes that company was the last thing he wanted right now.
Tough break, asshole, Missy thought sourly. I'm not exactly thrilled to be here either. But we'll both just have to make the most of it, won't we?
He finally nodded reluctantly and moved to get up. “No, stay there,” Missy called, waving him back down. “I've got a key.”
Cain didn't look too happy about that, but he gestured for her to come in and settled back on the couch.
Missy reached under the door mat, picked up the key, and entered. She looked around, trying to keep her face neutral despite the squalid surroundings.
It was immediately obvious that even when he had two working arms, Cain never cleaned. The hardwood floors were thick with dust and tracked-in grit, and heavy clusters of cobwebs hung from the corners and walls in many places, like the tattered remains of gray curtains. There were no shelves or decorations, and the only furniture in the living room was the couch, an old leather easy chair with the stuffing oozing from a dozen different holes, and a small folding table with the television set on it.
Worst of all, there was a rotten smell hanging in the air. When Missy glanced toward the small kitchen, she saw the source—there were dishes stacked high in the sink, and the muck crusted on them looked like it had been there for weeks. A pair of small folding chairs stood next to a table that was covered with stains.
Hunter, if you think I'm even setting foot in that kitchen, let alone doing those filthy dishes to cook for him, you've got another thing coming, Missy thought. I'd rather put my hand in boiling water and then staple it to a fucking cactus than let it touch those things.
“Wow,” she said, trying to breathe through her mouth. “You don't do a lot of entertaining, huh?”
“Yeah, and that's how I prefer it, actually,” Cain replied, “so what the fuck are you doing here? If you came to score some pills, sorry, but you heard what the doc said. You'll have to get your fix elsewhere.”
“That shouldn't be a problem,” Missy said. “Off the top of my head, I'm guessing there are about nine different crack houses I could go to that would be cleaner than this place. Smell better, too.”
“Good,” Cain answered, “then go find one and leave me the hell alone.”
“I would if I could, believe me,” said Missy, “but Hunter sent me to look in on you.”
“Now you have. Thanks. You can go now. You can even tell Hunter you saw me doing jumping jacks and breakdancing, if you think that'll keep him from sending you again.”
“Wow, where is all of this sudden negativity coming from?” Missy shot back sarcastically. “I mean, just a few hours ago, you were just so friendly and charming, and now...”
“Fuck off. How's that for charming?”
Missy sighed. “Okay. Let's take a deep breath and start over. I'm sorry I insulted your house. You have a beautiful house. I'm surprised it hasn't gotten a spread in Better Homes & Gardens. Is that better? Now cool your jets, sit back, and relax. Unfortunately, I'm not going anywhere, at least for the moment. Hunter wants me here looking after you, so that's that.”
“Looking after me?” Cain balked. “What the fuck is that even supposed to mean? I'm a goddamn adult. I can look after myself.”
“Can you?” Missy asked. “Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you can't even change your shirt on your own.”
“Maybe I like my shirt where it is,” Cain spat. “Maybe I don't go to pieces every time I get a little blood on me.”
“Yeah, you're wearing it on purpose,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I'm sure. But if you decide you'd rather be wearing a fresh one that doesn't look and smell like a slaughterhouse rag, ask me nicely and I'll help you change into one.”
Cain barked out a sharp laugh. “I wouldn't hold my breath. Look, I'm exhausted and these pills they gave me aren't helping, so forgive me if I'm not brimming with enthusiasm about having someone here to stand around and stare at me. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to take a piss.”
He dragged himself into a sitting position on the couch and started to stand up, groaning slightly. He got a few inches off the cushion, then sat back down hard.
“Do you need a hand?” Missy asked.
“I can piss by myself, thanks,” Cain snarled. “It's heavy, but I can still lift it.”
“I'll bet you can,” she answered. “If you can manage to get to the toilet in time. Which, from the look of you...”
“Bite me,” Cain said, pulling himself off the couch with a single jerky motion. He overbalanced and started to fall forward.
“Oh, for Christ's sake, here,” said Missy, moving forward to brace him up before he tipped over completely. He was heavier than he looked, and she grunted, keeping herself under his good arm and trying to avoid putting pressure on his ribs.
“Okay, I'm up,” Cain said, starting to hobble toward the bathroom. “You can let go now.”
“How about I walk you over to the door anyway just in case, huh?” Missy replied. She had been here for less than ten minutes and she was already sick of his stupid macho bullshit.
Even so, while she was this close to him, she couldn't help but breathe in his musky scent. It caused a brief but undeniable tickle of primal attraction in the back of her brain. A tickle that couldn't be ignored.
“Don't worry,” she continued jokingly, “once we get there, the door will close and you'll be on your own.”
“Why is your face getting so red?” Cain asked.
“Exertion. From lifting you. Now shut up, we're almost there.”
They made it to the bathroom door and Cain braced himself against the walls, easing into the room slowly. Just before he slammed the door shut, Missy caught a glimpse of his eyes in the mirror over the sink as Cain looked at himself. Even with one eye swollen almost completely shut—and both of them glassy from the pills—Missy could see an anger and shame burning there that looked almost bottomless.
She felt her annoyance with Cain soften just a bit. She'd known plenty of men like him, and they were so terrified of being helpless that most of them would have rather died than been forced to rely on others to help them dress, bathe, and eat, even temporarily. These men who strutted around, so proud of how tough their bodies were, could also be pathetically blind to how fragile their egos were.
Clearly, this was the case with Cain as well.
Missy knew that Cain hadn't eaten since at least the previous night. Well, she certainly didn't relish the idea of spending any time in that kitchen, but Hunter had specifically told her to make sure Cain was eating—and to be fair, she had to concede that even rude pricks probably didn't deserve to starve to death.
She stepped into the kitchen, trying to ignore the sound of her shoes sticking to the yellowed, curling linoleum and then tearing away with each step. She opened the fridge and squinted in.
Three mismatched bottles of cheap beer. A crusty squeeze-bottle of generic mustard. A handful of ketchup packets from about five different take-out places. And a carton of eggs that was three months past the expiration date.
She shook her head and shut the fridge, opening the freezer above it.
The walls of the freezer were bulging with ice that looked at least seven inches thick on all sides. Resting in the middle of it all was a single pork chop, so freezer-burned that it looked like a fossil collected from an Arctic expedition.
Cain slowly shuffled out of the bathroom, entering the kitchen. “If you're looking for champagne and caviar, I'm afraid I'm fresh out,” he said, sitting down at the table with a pained grunt. “But don't worry, the butler will be bringing more tomorrow when he comes to clean out the stables and wash the fucking Bentley.”
Mis
sy ignored the jab. “Do you feel like you could eat? I could order something in for us, if you want.”
“These pills don't give me much of an appetite,” Cain said. “If you want to do something for me so badly, then bring me my smokes and my lighter from the living room, and make me some coffee.”
Missy went to the living room and scooped up Cain's cigarettes and Zippo. On TV, a sitcom wife was needling her husband about forgetting to take out the trash as the studio audience screeched with laughter.
“Do you want me to turn the TV off?” Missy called out.
There was nothing from the kitchen except morose silence.
“I'll take that as a yes,” she muttered, switching off the set.
