“Oh, dear Lord,” Glenda whispered. As Kassidey fiddled with the phone, Glenda went to the refrigerator. She opened it and looked inside, clicking her tongue thoughtfully, trying to absorb herself in the search for food.
Kassidey found what she was looking for and handed the phone to Wyatt. He took it as gingerly as if she was handing him a ticking bomb. “Press the play button,” she said. When he still looked confused, she put her hand to her mouth to hide her smile. “On the screen. The one that looks like an arrowhead.”
He did, watching the video in silence. Thanks to the cheap surveillance cameras, it was too small and jittery to tell much; he couldn’t read expressions. It took him a moment to recognize Tyler, but there was no mistaking the shape of the gun in his hand. When the brief video was done, he set the phone down on the island. “I can’t tell much from that.”
“Except who it is,” Kassidey said. “You know that’s Tyler. And the dark-haired one?”
“Could be anyone.”
“Could be. But we both know it’s Mick Jakes.”
Glenda closed the refrigerator door. “I need to go to the store,” she said, “if I’m going to make something to take to Carl and Marian…” She stopped, looking back and forth between them.
Kassidey sighed. “We need to go ahead and get this out on the table, okay? Glenda, I’m not here to steal your husband.”
Glenda’s jaw tightened. “Well. You’re very direct.”
Kassidey smiled, a little sadly. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”
“Then I’ll be direct, too. You took him from his first wife.”
“No,” Wyatt spoke up.
Glenda turned to him. “So now you defend her?”
“No,” Wyatt said. “I’m just telling you how it was. It’s nothing I haven’t told you before. I never hid anything from you. That marriage was dead before…before.”
“Before Savannah Jakes,” Glenda said. “And her boys. And that threw you together. And now that’s happening again.”
Wyatt looked over at Kassidey. She was nodding. “I understand,” she said. She picked up her phone from the countertop, took the bag from behind the chair. “I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry.” She looked at Wyatt and smiled. “Be well, Wyatt.” She started to walk out. When she got to the door, she stopped. “There’s one more thing.”
“Of course there is,” Glenda said.
“About two weeks ago,” Kassidey said, “someone contacted Jessica at the Clerk of Court’s office. Wanted to know about the adoption of Mick and Keith Jakes. They said they were with the federal government.”
Wyatt frowned. “The feds? Which agency?”
“Jessica said he was, as she put it, ‘real vague’ about it. When she told him he’d need a court order, he got short with her. Tried to bully her. She was still upset when she talked to me. You know how Jessica hates conflict.”
Wyatt nodded. Kassidey went on. “Give her credit, though. That quiet little girl can dig in her heels where confidentiality’s concerned. So she called me. She was practically in tears until I told her Social Services would back her up. Then I called the county attorney. He said the same.”
Wyatt picked up the coffee cup again and took a thoughtful sip. “Why are the feds interested in an adoption that happened…what, twelve years ago?”
“Thirteen,” Kassidey said. “I know. It’s a mystery.” She smiled at Glenda. “Thank you very much for the tea. I’m sorry if I upset you.” She walked out before either of them could respond.
“God,” Glenda said in a tight voice after she heard the front door open and close, “she’s so…so reasonable.”
“Yeah,” Wyatt said absently.
She glared at him. “You’re thinking about looking into this, aren’t you? You’ll do it for her, but you wouldn’t do it for Carl. Your friend.”
“It’s different now,” he said.
“Right. It’s a mystery.”
He was preoccupied and didn’t notice the edge in her tone. “Why are the feds snooping around? And what happened in Spencer? Why did Tyler Welch have a gun in his hand?” He tapped his fingers on the countertop for a few moments, then looked up and saw his wife’s face. He slid off the barstool and came around the island, holding out his arms to her. She resisted for a moment, then settled against him, if a bit stiffly. As always, he liked the way they fit together, the top of her head nestled comfortably beneath his chin. “There’s no one but you, Glenda,” he murmured. “You’re the only one for me.”
Glenda was silent for a moment. Then she said in a low voice, “Do you think she’s pretty?”
He weighed his answer for a moment. A facile denial would be worse than the truth. “Yeah,” he said, “she’s still pretty.” As she began to stiffen in his arms, he finished with the rest of the truth. “But you? You’re beautiful. You’re always my girl.”
She pulled away from him slightly, her eyes scanning his face for evidence of insincerity. Finding none, she settled back into his embrace. “I need to go to the store,” she murmured. “I need some stuff to make a casserole to take to Carl and Marian. And you need a shower.” She looked up, an impish look in her gray eyes. “I think the store can wait.” He bent down to kiss her and she squirmed away. “The shower can’t, though.”
“Join me?”
She smiled. “I think that’s a great idea.”
THE BLACK FIREBIRD rumbled down the dirt streets of the trailer park like a tank in enemy territory. Tyler stared out the window at the collection of ramshackle manufactured homes they passed: mostly single-wides, with one or two double-wides striving for respectability with wooden decks out front and concrete planters filled with struggling flowers. In one space, a rusting camper sagged on flat tires, a lantern flickering dimly within. The summer night had brought people out onto the decks and into the tiny yards, and the smell of charcoal smoke and grilling meat permeated the air. Music, a mix of heavy metal, country, and bouncy Mexican pop, blared from cheap speakers propped up behind tattered window screens.
In contrast to the carnival atmosphere of the rest of the park, the single-wide trailer Mick pulled up to was dark and silent. After he turned the engine off, he sat looking at the rusting metal walls. Tyler didn’t know what to do. “So,” he spoke up finally. “Is this home?”
“No,” Mick said. “But it’s where I stay.” He got out of the car. Tyler didn’t know what else to do but follow.
Inside, the trailer was dark until Mick turned on a lamp with a low-wattage bulb that couldn’t disguise the shredded couch, duct-taped easy chair, and worn carpet. It also could do nothing to mask the smell of unwashed laundry and spoiled food. There was a tiny open-plan kitchen to the right, separated from the living space by a counter on which were piled empty beer cans and pizza boxes.
In their short time together, Tyler had learned to read some of Mick’s body language; the tightening of his older brother’s jaw and the narrowing of his eyes made him glance nervously at the gun tucked in his waistband.
“Lana,” Mick called out, then louder, “Lana!”
There was a brief silence, then the sounds of movement and the dimly reflected illumination of a light coming on down a hallway Tyler could make out to his left. There was the shuffling sound of someone making their way slowly down the hallway, which filled Tyler with an irrational dread. The girl who eventually emerged, however, was so short and slight that Tyler almost burst out in laughter with embarrassment at himself.
She was barely five feet tall, with a short amateurish cut to her dirty blonde hair that made her look even more like a little girl. It was only when she drew closer that Tyler could see the lines in her face and the puffiness around the eyes that made her look worn and old. She clutched a ragged quilt around her shoulders that trailed to the carpet and made her look even smaller. “Hey, baby,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “How was your trip?” She looked around blearily and noticed Tyler for what appeared to be the first time. “Oh. Hey.” She looked back at Mick. “Is
this the brother you told me about?”
Mick smiled back, seeming to relax a bit. “Yeah. This is Keith.”
She walked over to him, stumbling a bit, over the enveloping blanket or her own feet, Tyler couldn’t tell. He could tell she was high on something; her pale blue eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. She held out a hand. “Hey,” she said again.
He took the hand, gave it a squeeze. “Hey.”
She turned to Mick. “You didn’t tell me he was so cute.” The effect of the flirtatious words was spoiled by the lack of affect in her voice.
“Runs in the family.” Mick took the gun out and laid it on the kitchen counter. Tyler glanced at it for a moment, but Mick’s warning look quashed any thought he might have developed of trying for it.
Lana sniffled. “Did you bring my medicine?”
Mick shook his head. “Had to get some money first. I’ll go over to Micah’s and pick something up in a minute. We got anything to eat?”
Her face had turned sulky. “Look for yourself.” She sank to the couch and wrapped the blanket around her, despite the warm and stuffy air inside the trailer.
Mick sighed and went to the fridge, snapping on the kitchen light as he did so. The fluorescent ceiling fixture had a slight but maddening flicker in it. Mick stared into the fridge for a moment, then slammed it. He glared at Lana.
“I didn’t have no money for the store,” she said, still pouting.
He snapped the flickering light off. “I left you some. What happened to it?”
She didn’t answer, just looked away and looked sullenly at the floor. “Goddamn it,” he said. “Micah’s already been by here, ain’t he?”
“I’m sick,” she muttered. “I need my medicine. And you wasn’t here.”
Mick picked the gun up off the counter. Tyler thought for a moment that he might shoot the girl on the sofa, but Mick just stuck it back in his waistband.
“You goin’ to Micah’s?” Lana said. “No need. I’m okay. For now.”
“Yeah,” Mick said. “I’ll be back in a little bit. Get dressed. And pack a bag. You’re goin’ with us.”
She looked up, her eyes widening in alarm. “What? Where?”
“Just pack your shit. I’ll be back.” He looked at Tyler. “Come on, lil’ bro. We gotta go see a man about a dog.”
THEY MET in a windowless conference room in one of the few actual skyscrapers in the New Orleans area. Winslow sat at one end of the table, Special Agent in Charge Salvatore Hammond sat at the other. His assistant, an officious little prick named Kimball, sat next to him. The SAC was never a patient man on the best of days, and this was not one of those. “So far, this wire we’ve got on Angus Charlebois’s house has produced exactly jack squat on Wallace Luther’s operation. Tell me in thirty words or less why I shouldn’t pull the plug on it. And on your investigation.”
Winslow was trying to will himself not to sweat and failing. “Charleyboy’s a weak link. He’s into Luther for forty grand, and the interest is mounting. Luther’s sweating him for it. But he keeps telling his girlfriend he’s got something big in the works. Something that’ll get them out of debt.”
Hammond spread his hands in a gesture of frustration. “What? Tell me what?”
“I don’t know yet. But maybe if we get a tap on his cell…” The look on the SAC’s face stopped him.
Hammond shook his head. Kimball mirrored the gesture. Winslow was reminded of why he’d never liked Kimball. Fucking ass kisser, he thought. “I’m not getting you a StingRay,” Hammond said, “without more proof that this is actually going anywhere.” He drummed his fingers on the table thoughtfully. “What about the girlfriend? Maybe she can turn him.”
“Maybe,” Winslow said. “I think I’m getting a pretty good rapport with her.”
Hammond’s grunt showed what he thought of Winslow’s powers of persuasion. “You having any luck getting the info you said she wanted? About the sons she gave up?”
“Still trying. But the locals are stalling me. I’ve got someone working on it.”
“How about the liaison? That female deputy from the sheriff’s department?”
Winslow felt things slipping away from him. “She’s only there as a courtesy. She’s a mushroom. I keep her in the dark—”
“And feed her bullshit,” the SAC interrupted, the cliché apparently irritating him even further. “But she’s a woman. Maybe she can talk to the girlfriend. Get something more solid on what Charlebois is planning, or what’s going on with Luther.”
“Sir—”
“You’ve got a week, Winslow.” Hammond stood up, followed by his silent assistant. Winslow stood as well as Hammond went on. “Get me something I can go on or I’m shutting this op down and putting you somewhere useful.”
“Yes, sir.”
MICK STRODE PURPOSEFULLY down the darkened dirt street of the trailer park, so quickly that Tyler had to jog to catch up. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Who is this Micah guy?”
“He’s an asshole,” Mick said in a low, furious voice, “and I told him to stay the fuck away from Lana.”
“Mick, whatever you’re thinking of doing with that gun…don’t hurt him. Okay? Come on, we’ve got enough trouble.”
Mick stopped and turned to look at him. He put a hand on Tyler’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “Don’t worry, lil’ bro,” he said. “I’m not gonna hurt him. I’m just gonna teach him some respect. Okay?”
Tyler looked into that unwavering gaze, into eyes so much like his own. “You promise?”
“Cross my heart,” Mick said, making the gesture. “I won’t hurt him.”
“Okay. But why do we even have to go, then?”
Mick sighed. “I gotta get Lana her medicine.”
“You mean drugs.”
Mick rolled his eyes. “No, I mean Snickers and a box of Good n’ Plentys. Yeah, Keith. I mean druuuuugs.” He stretched the word out with a spooky mocking quaver in his voice. “She’s an addict. And part of the reason she’s going with us is that if I leave her behind, fucking Micah will keep her doped to the fucking ears while he peddles her ass out of that trailer. We get her out of here, I can get her some help. But in the meantime, I can’t have her going through withdrawal and puking all over my car.”
Tyler shook his head like someone trying to wake up out of a bad dream that kept getting worse. He’d always avoided the stoners—“waste-oids” in the language of his clique of athletes. He’d smelled the odor of weed, or what he assumed was weed, coming from cars in the high school parking lot and at parties, but he’d never even seen the stuff. Now he was going with his long-lost older brother to make a deal for god knew what. Probably heroin. Mick was walking again, and Tyler had no choice but to fall into step.
The trailer they approached was a double-wide, much newer than Mick’s. Still, the giant red Ford pickup that sat outside looked as if it might cost more. Mick climbed the short concrete steps and paused to move his pistol from the front of his waistband to the back. The door opened slightly and half a face peered out. It swung wider, revealing a tall, broad man with a wild shock of curly dark hair. He was dressed in sweatpants and no shirt, his huge belly drooping over the waistband. He had small, mean eyes sunk into the fat of his broad face. “’Sup,” he said to Mick, his eyes darting back over his shoulder to take Tyler in. “Who’s he?”
“My little brother,” Mick said. “You been over to the house, Micah?”
Micah looked back at him. “Yeah. Lana called me. She needed some…” He looked back at Tyler.
“Yeah. I know,” Mick said. “I need some, too.”
Micah looked surprised. “No shit? I never knew you to do anything but some beers. And weed.”
Mick shrugged. “Like I said, my little bro’s in town. It’s time to party.”
“Yeah. Okay.” Micah stepped back into the trailer. Mick followed. Tyler hesitated and looked around. He wanted to run but had no idea where he’d go. He walked up the steps.
Tyler was
alone in the living room, which was much better furnished than Mick’s place. A big-screen TV dominated one wall across from a big leather couch. It took Tyler a moment to make out what was on the screen, other than the word Mute in the corner. When he did, he gasped and turned away from the writhing bodies and skin glistening with fluids he didn’t want to think about.
“Movie night,” was all Mick said. He walked over to the couch and picked up the remote that lay on the coffee table in front of the couch. He pressed a button, and the air was filled with the sounds of grunts, moans, and whispers. He pressed the button again and the sounds got louder. He placed the remote back on the table.
“What are you doing?” Tyler had to raise his voice to be heard over the obscene soundtrack.
Micah re-entered the room carrying a plastic Ziploc bag full of multicolored pills. He glanced at the screen and frowned before turning back. “I got anything you need here, homes,” he said, his own voice raised. “Got some oxy, some Opana, I got some Suboxone in the back if you’re interested. Pick your poison.”
Mick held out a hand. “Lemme see.” When Micah held out the bag, Mick reached for it. He fumbled the handoff and the bag fell to the floor. Some of the pills spilled out. “Oh. Shit.”
“Goddamn it,” Micah grumbled. He bent over to pick it up, grunting with the effort. Mick swiftly reached into the back of his waistband and pulled out the pistol. Tyler opened his mouth to scream for his brother not to shoot, but Mick didn’t fire. He raised the pistol over his head and brought the butt crashing down on the back of Micah’s skull. Tyler stepped back so fast, he nearly lost his footing, the scream still stuck in his throat. Micah sank to his knees, then fell over flat on his face. Blood flowed from the gash hidden beneath the tangle of hair.
“What! What! What!” It was as if all Tyler’s other words had fled.
“I told you, motherfucker,” Mick whispered savagely to the man on the floor. “I fucking told you.” He got on his knees and scooped up the bag. He picked up a few of the pills, avoiding the ones that were covered with the blood flowing across the floor. He looked up at Tyler. “Come on in the back bedroom,” Mick said. “Help me find his cash.” Tyler stood rooted to the spot. “Come on, Keith,” Mick said. “We got to get goin’. We kinda just burned our boat here.”
Fortunate Son Page 5
