“You tell her I asked after her, you hear? I hope she feels better.”
“I’ll do that.” There was a brief uncomfortable silence, the type that would normally be filled by small talk. The news he brought, and the favor he meant to ask, had filled his mind and squeezed out the usual easy pleasantries. “Wyatt’s out back,” she finally said.
“I heard.”
She looked at him and sighed. “Took the ax from the mud room right after you called and walked out without sayin’ a word. Been chopping away like a beaver ever since. And it ain’t like we didn’t already have plenty of firewood.”
“He knows I’m not bringing good news.”
“No one ever does,” she said. “Not any more. Or bad news, either.” She scowled. “Guess we found out who our friends are. At least you stood by him.”
“It was no trouble,” he said softly.
“I know it was. Don’t lie to me,” she said, then smiled. “It ain’t right for a preacher to lie. Now get out there before he runs out of logs to split and starts in on my rosebushes.”
Tall trees ringed the yard, looking down on the man in the center who stood before a thick oak stump used as a chopping block. He was a big man, over six feet, and broad. He still had the build that had made him a high school football star, long ago. The dark hair had thinned now and receded from the top of the large, square-jawed head. Sweat ran down his ruddy face and darkened the already stained t-shirt he wore. As he approached, Carl noticed the red and white Budweiser can sitting on the ground a few feet away. He frowned at that, but decided to let it go for the moment. “Morning, Sheriff.”
Wyatt McGee stopped and leaned the ax against the block without looking up. He took a large faded bandanna from his back pocket and mopped the sweat from his brow. He stuffed the rag in his pocket, picked up the beer can, and took a long pull. Only then did he look the other man in the eye.
“Don’t call me that. I ain’t sheriff anymore.”
Carl shrugged it off. “Way I see it, Wyatt, it’s like any other title you earned, like Colonel or Congressman or whatnot. You earned it, you don’t ever lose it.”
McGee looked away again. “I did.” He picked up the ax again, but he didn’t pick up another log. He just hefted it in his hands, turning it this way and that.
“My boy’s gone,” Carl said.
McGee stopped his examination and looked up. “Tyler?”
Carl just nodded.
McGee sat the log on the block and swung the ax again in a long arc over his head that split the log in two as if it was passing through air. “Call the sheriff’s department.”
“I did,” Carl said. “They said he most likely run off. He’s eighteen, they said, and he can do what he likes.”
“That’s true.”
“Tyler wouldn’t do that. Not without telling me or his mama.”
McGee leaned on the axe. He took the bandanna out and mopped his face again. “You speak to Henry?” Henry was the chief deputy who’d replaced McGee as acting sheriff after he’d resigned. After a few months, the County Commissioners made it official, and Henry had coasted to easy electoral victories ever since in a county where challenging a sitting sheriff was a quick route to permanent unemployment if you lost.
“Yeah. Took me a while, but I finally got to him. Times have changed over there, Wyatt.”
McGee picked up the beer can, drained the last drops, then crushed it and tossed it back to the ground. “Good. So what did Henry say?”
“He said the same thing. Tyler took the money he’d saved and he run off.”
Wyatt shrugged. “You never can tell what someone’ll do.”
“I can. I raised that boy like he was my own. No. He was my own. Something’s happened.”
McGee picked up another log, sighed, set it back down. “I can’t be of any use to you, Carl. Not without my badge.”
“I reckon you’re the same man you always were. Badge or no badge. And you got a stake in this, too. You’re the one who got him out of that place. Away from that woman. And brought him to me.”
The big man looked away. “That wasn’t me,” he said. “It was the Social Services people.”
“On your say-so.”
“Well, that was back when my say-so meant something.”
“It still does.”
McGee shook his head. “It shouldn’t.”
There was a pause. “You know,” Carl said, “The Chinese believe when you save someone’s life, you’re responsible for that person ever after.”
McGee snorted. “I met a couple of Chinese fellas when I was in the Marines. We got drunk in Manila. They told me that’s a load of crap.”
“Well, it ought to be so.”
“Damn it, Carl…” McGee stopped. “Sorry. Need to watch my language.”
“It’s okay. Put a quarter in Glenda’s swear jar. But I still need your help.”
McGee leaned the ax on the chopping block and sat down on the block. “I wouldn’t be no good to you, Carl,” he said again.
“You don’t trust yourself.”
“No.”
“’Cause you were wrong. One time.”
“He could have died. I could’ve sent an innocent man to the death house.”
Carl shrugged. “Like I said—”
“Right. He confessed.” Wyatt McGee spat the word like a curse. He stood and picked up the ax again.
“Wyatt,” Carl said, “You think splitting every log in the county’s gonna get you to forgive yourself?” McGee put another log on the block. Carl felt his frustration rising. “You need to do something good again, Wyatt. This hiding away is poisoning you. It’s turned you old before your time.” He walked over and picked up the empty can. “Look at you. Drinking in the middle of the day.”
Wyatt’s face darkened. “You need to mind your business, Carl.”
Carl shook his head, fighting his own anger down. “I thought my boy was my business.”
McGee hefted the ax. “Well, he ain’t mine.” He raised the blade and brought it down so hard that it not only split the log, it wedged itself deep into the oak of the block. He was still trying to work it loose as Carl walked away.
CHANCE PULLED HER compact Chevy pickup into the packed-earth driveway next to the single-wide trailer where she lived. Neither truck nor trailer was new, and they both showed their years on the outside, but both were solid and well maintained on the inside, and most importantly, they were hers outright. She’d inherited her father’s aversion to debt, and she’d scraped together every dime for the vehicle and the home on her own. She got out and looked around at the wooded lot the trailer sat on, knowing that someday, that tiny piece of land in St. Charles Parish that her father had saved for would pass to her. She was in no hurry for that day, however, and she wished he’d gotten to enjoy it as much as she had. In the meantime, it made the long drive to work worthwhile. Which reminded her, it was time she called her dad. First, however, she had to deal with the frantically yapping dog who was throwing himself against the wire of his pen that sat beneath a small copse of trees in back. “Dang it, Jonas,” she called out in good-natured irritation, “I’m comin’!” When she opened the gate, the black-and-white springer spaniel shot out, circled her a few times in wriggling ecstasy while she bent down and tried to pet him, then tore off into the woods to relieve himself. She climbed the wooden stairs, let herself in, and got a Diet Coke from the trailer’s wheezy fridge. By the time she’d taken it back outside and plopped down in the canvas camp chair that sat by the steps, the dog had returned, carrying a ragged tennis ball in his jaws. Chance ruffled the dog’s ears as he dropped the ball at her feet. When she picked it up and threw it, the dog bounded off. She took a long pull off her soda, pulled out her cell phone, and hit the speed dial.
Her father picked up on the first ring. “Hey, Lil’ Bit.”
She hadn’t realized until she heard her father’s voice how roiled she still was inside, how much she needed to hear that calm, measured to
ne. She could see him in his tattered easy chair by the phone, his white cane leaning against the side table. “Hey, Dad. How’s it going?”
“Oh, you know,” he said. “This getting old shit isn’t for sissies. But there’s only one way to stop it, I guess.”
She laughed. “You’re not old, Dad.”
“Yeah, I am. So what’s going on with you? How’s my grand-dog?”
The dog in question had brought the ball back and laid it at Chance’s feet. He had his front paws stretched out and his butt in the air, wiggling with anticipation of the next throw. “As usual. Fat, dumb, and happy.” She picked the ball up and tossed it.
“How’s work?”
She hesitated.
As usual, her father picked up on it right away. “Spill it, girl.”
Even before he’d lost his sight, Brett Cahill had exhibited an almost supernatural ability to pick up on nuances of speech and expression. It had made him a legendary interrogator in the Louisiana State Police Bureau of Investigations. It had also made it nearly impossible for Chance or her sister, CeeCee, to get away with anything as children. Unfortunately for her father, the man who put a nearly fatal bullet in the back of his head hadn’t been facing him; he’d been shot in an ambush without a word of warning.
She started haltingly, but soon the words were coming quickly, the anger inside her boiling over as she described the incident with the informant. Jonas, with his own canine gift for sensing his mistress’s distress, abandoned the ball and laid his head on her knee. She reassured the dog with a scratch behind the ears. When she finally ran down, her father was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was dispassionate and professional. She was dismayed for a second, until she realized he was speaking to her as one cop to another. That was something not unheard of, but rare. It made her feel good.
“Undercover puts you in close relationships with people you’d normally be putting in cuffs,” he said. “But you’ve got to remember. Some of these people are masters at manipulation. You can’t get mad at ’em for that. It’s what they learned to do to survive. Sometimes at Mama or Daddy’s knee. But you have to learn to keep your distance. Don’t let them suck you into their game.” He took a deep breath, as if the words were bringing back memories he’d rather not revisit. Then some of the warmth returned to his voice. “I guess what I’m sayin’, Lil’ Bit, is you be careful, okay? Don’t you start your heart bleedin’ for an informant.”
“Okay, Dad.” She ran her hand through the dog’s thick fur. “What about this Winslow guy?”
“The fed? He sounds like an asshole. But then, most of them are.”
She laughed. “I guess what I’m asking is, how do I handle him?”
“You handle him like you handle any asshole. You stand up for yourself and you don’t back down. Think you can handle that?”
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I can do that.” She chuckled. “I had a great teacher.”
“He anyone I know?”
That made her laugh out loud. “I love you, Dad.”
“Love you too, Lil’ Bit. And be careful out there, okay?”
“Always.” They said their goodbyes. She broke the connection and picked up the ball. The dog wagged his tail and barked happily. All was right in his world again. Chance threw the ball. They played like that until the sun began to sink behind the live oaks.
“WHERE ARE we going?” Tyler said.
Mick was tapping out a rhythm only he could hear on the steering wheel. He shifted around in the driver’s seat as if it was heating up. “My place,” he said. “But I gotta pick up a couple of things first.”
Tyler sagged back into the passenger seat. His mind was racing. If Mick was planning to make a stop, maybe he could get away. Call his mom and dad. No, the cops first, then his mom and dad. But first, run. Run from this strange young man Tyler couldn’t even recognize as his brother.
His frantic thoughts were interrupted as Mick pulled into the parking lot of a small roadside store. A peeling wooden sign above the door identified the place as Gary’s Country Market.
“What are you getting here?” Tyler asked.
He felt a twisting in his guts as Mick pulled out the gun again. “Not me, lil’ bro,” Mick said. “Us. You’re coming inside with me.” He reached behind the seat and pulled out another pistol, a massive black .45. “Take this,” he said, thrusting it into Tyler’s hand.
GLENDA WATCHED SILENTLY as Wyatt strode back into the house, went to the kitchen fridge, grabbed another beer—his fourth of the day—and stomped back out to the screened porch that overlooked the sloping backyard. She finished drying off the dish she’d been washing, then put it back in the kitchen cabinet. She moved slowly, with the hesitation of someone stretching out a mundane task in order to delay a much more unpleasant one. Finally, she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and walked out to the back porch.
Wyatt was sitting in one of the iron-framed chairs with the floral print cushions that they’d picked out together at Lowe’s. His gaze rested on the backyard, but his eyes were far away. Glenda had learned to dread that faraway look. She took the other chair.
“So,” she said, keeping her voice as neutral as possible. “What did Carl want?”
He raised the beer can to his lips, took a drink. He didn’t answer.
“Wyatt,” she said, a little more steel in her voice. “I asked you a question. Can you answer me?”
He turned to look at her. She met his gaze without flinching. She’d gotten good at that.
“Tyler Welch has run off,” he said at last.
She nodded. “Carl thinks it’s more than that.”
He shook his head. “Henry says—”
She cut him off. “Henry.” Her tone conveyed all that needed to be said.
“Henry’s the sheriff.”
“And Carl’s your friend. And he wants your help.” She shook her head. “I never knew you to turn your back on a friend.”
His expression darkened. “Goddamn it, Glenda…”
“Don’t you curse at me, Wyatt McGee,” she shot back. “I won’t have it.”
He looked away, took another drink of his beer. “Sorry,” he finally said in a low voice.
She sighed and stood up. She walked behind his chair and bent down to kiss the top of his balding head. She slid her hands down to caress his chest. “You could just ask around,” she murmured. “You still know people.”
He drank again. “I don’t have a badge. Or a gun.”
She snorted. “You don’t need them. People in this county still respect you, Wyatt.”
His shoulders writhed beneath her touch. “They shouldn’t.”
She sighed and embraced him more tightly. “Oh, honey,” she whispered. “You made a mistake. When are you going to forgive yourself for that?”
He didn’t answer as he took another drink. She sighed and released him. “I’m going to the store,” she said. “I’ll be back in a little bit.”
“Okay.” He took another drink. “We need more beer.”
“No, we don’t,” she said. “But I’ll get some anyway.”
When he heard her car going out of the driveway, he finished off the beer. He got up and walked into the bedroom, noting the slight stumble in his gait. It made him ashamed, and the shame made him want another beer. He went into the bathroom and took a leak first.
On his way back to the kitchen, he paused by the bedroom closet. After a moment, he opened it, reached up to the top shelf, and took down a wooden box. He sat on the bed and looked at it for a moment. It was made of unfinished wood, with cheap wooden hinges. He’d made it in shop class in tenth grade for his father. His hands shook a bit as he opened the box.
Inside were two objects: One was the old .38 Police Special he’d worn in his first years on the sheriff’s department, the one that had later been replaced by the sleeker Beretta. The other was a sheathed blade. The leather sheath had the globe and anchor symbol of the U.S. Marine Corps st
amped into the front, and the name MCGEE burned crudely into the back with a child’s wood-burning set. The knife had been his father’s, the USMC-issue Ka-Bar Big Jim McGee had worn when he won the Silver Star and Purple Heart in Korea in the brutal defense against the Chinese onslaught in the snow surrounding the Chosin Reservoir. His father had given it to Wyatt when he’d first put on the khaki deputy’s uniform. It had been the one and only time Big Jim had told his son he was proud of him. Wyatt had worn the blade on his own hip every day he was a law enforcement officer. When he’d been elected Sheriff, the local papers delighted in photographing him with the huge blade strapped to his belt.
In the end, that blade and his pride had been the instruments of his downfall.
He reached into the box and pulled out the sheathed knife, feeling the heft and balance of the legendary weapon, but he didn’t draw it. After a moment, he put it back in the box. The box went back on the shelf, and Wyatt McGee went back into the kitchen for another beer.
TYLER STARED at the gun in his hand, blinking in surprise.
“Before you get any ideas,” Mick said. “It ain’t loaded. It ain’t even got a firin’ pin. But you are goin’ in there with it in your hand. Just like I’m takin’ mine.” He racked the slide on his own gun.
Tyler shook his head, his eyes filling with tears. “No.” His voice cracked. “I’m not going to…” The pressure of the gun barrel against his forehead silenced him.
“If you don’t do what I say,” Mick said in a low, tense voice, “I’ll go in there without you. And I’ll shoot everyone in there. And that’ll be on you.” He took the gun away. “Now. Get out of the car. Walk in front of me. Go inside. Once you get in there, you just stand aside. But if you try to run, or if you try to stop me, I’ll shoot whoever’s in there. And then I’ll shoot you. Understand?” Tyler could only nod. Mick raised the gun again. “Tell me you understand.”
“I…I understand.”
“Good. Now you go first.”
Tyler got out slowly, the useless pistol limp and dangling from his hand. The store was a dilapidated wood-frame building, with peeling white paint and grates over the dirty, double-hung paned windows. An illuminated sign for cold beer shone from behind one window. Tyler heard Mick getting out of the car, the sound coming to him with unnatural clarity in the silence of the country road.
Fortunate Son Page 3
