He smiled back, his point made. “Any time, gal. Any time.”
GARCIA STOPPED WRITING. “Excuse me?”
“Before I was sheriff,” Wyatt said, “I was a patrol officer. I investigated a child neglect call. Two young kids were left alone in a trailer with no electricity, no food, no nothing.”
Garcia’s only reaction was a slight nod. He’d undoubtedly seen the same thing or worse. Wyatt went on. “The older boy was Mick Jakes. The younger was his brother, Keith.”
Garcia inclined his head quizzically, but didn’t speak. Wyatt recognized the old interrogator’s trick: let the subject fill the silence. He smiled slightly with appreciation and continued. “Both kids were taken by DSS. After the mother failed to make any progress getting her life together, the court terminated her parental rights, and the boys were adopted out. Well, Keith was. His adoptive family changed his name to Tyler. Tyler Welch.”
Garcia wrote that down. “You said Keith—Tyler was adopted out. What about Mick?”
“Mick was a tougher case. He had some, I guess you could say, behavioral issues.”
Garcia shook his head. “Yeah. I checked the record. Assault, drugs, arson. All as a juvenile. Then a concealed weapon charge as an adult.”
“So you can see how he’d be hard to place for adoption.”
“Right.” Garcia scratched his chin. “So suddenly Mick Jakes and the younger brother he hasn’t seen for years are back together again. And they’re robbing country stores.”
“Yeah. Strike you as a little strange?”
“More than a little.” Garcia was beginning to relax in Wyatt’s presence as he pondered the new information. “So I’m getting that you don’t think Tyler’s, or Keith’s, or whatever his name is…you don’t think his participation in this robbery was voluntary.”
“I don’t,” Wyatt said. “He’s been a straight arrow. For years. He was literally a Boy Scout, for god’s sake.”
Garcia tapped his pen on the edge of his notebook and looked off into the middle distance. “I don’t know. You know what they say. Blood will tell.”
Wyatt frowned. “What, you think after all those years of being a good kid, straight-A student, his true nature suddenly busted out and he turned into a criminal like his brother?”
Garcia looked at him calmly. “I’m saying anything’s possible.” He leaned back and closed his notebook. “Sheriff, let me make a guess. You said you were looking into something for a friend. I’m thinking that’s the boy’s father. Or his mother. Am I right?”
“Yeah,” Wyatt said.
“They’re good friends. Good people. People you’d hate to give bad news to.”
“Well, yeah. But…” He stopped.
“With all due respect, Sheriff, I think you may be a little too close to this.” He stood up. “Still, you’ve given me some good information, and I appreciate it.”
Wyatt stood up as well. “So do you have any idea where they are?”
Garcia hesitated.
“I just need to be able to tell the family something,” Wyatt said.
“No,” Garcia said. “They’re in the wind. But if you do catch up to them, tell them to come in. ASAP. Tell them they’ll be safer with us than they are on the street.”
Wyatt felt a chill on the back of his neck that had nothing to do with the cranked air conditioning. “What does that mean?”
Garcia looked at him soberly. “It means that before the two subjects left, they burned Mick’s trailer to the ground. But not before they cracked the skull of a local dealer named Micah Culp and made off with his entire stash.”
“Did they kill him?”
“No,” Garcia said. “He’s in ICU, though. And word is that Culp’s suppliers are not pleased about losing a fresh shipment.”
“Or one of their people.”
“They can replace a dealer any day,” Garcia said. “They probably have already. But a lost stash of pills? That’s serious money. Losing money makes them mad. And, Sheriff, these are not people you want to have mad at you.”
Wyatt grimaced. “Damn.” Then Garcia’s words reminded him of something that had been lurking in the back of his mind. “That reminds me. One more thing. It’s a weird loose end, and I’m not sure what it means.” Garcia gave him that quizzical head tilt again, and Wyatt almost laughed. The kid’s got promise, he thought, but he needs to come up with some different moves. “Not too long ago, some guy claiming to be from the federal government called the Clerk of Court’s office in my county, asking for details on the adoption of Tyler Welch.”
Garcia frowned. “The adoption? Why?”
“He wouldn’t say. So the assistant clerk told him she wasn’t going to say anything without a court order.”
“Of course not,” Garcia said absently. He drummed his fingers on the desk he was standing beside. “A fed, you say.”
“Yeah,” Wyatt said. With elaborate casualness, he added, “could be just a coincidence.”
That snapped Garcia out of his reverie. He raised an eyebrow at Wyatt. “You believe in coincidences, Sheriff?”
“No,” Wyatt said, “I surely do not.”
Garcia nodded. “Me either. You or this assistant clerk have any idea who this fed was?”
“I don’t. But I can ask.”
“It’d be a big help.”
“Okay.” Wyatt extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, Detective Garcia.”
Garcia took it. “Same to you, Sheriff.”
As the handshake ended, Wyatt said “Oh, one more thing, while I’m up here.”
Garcia had half turned away. He turned back, a look of impatience on his face. “Yes, sir?” he said, clearly having to make an effort not to snap at the old man who seemed determined to keep him from getting back to work.
“Delwyn Chandler,” Wyatt said. “Mick’s last foster placement. You interviewed him yet?”
Garcia’s brows drew tighter together. “Of course. He didn’t know anything about where Mick had gone. Hadn’t heard from him in a year or more.”
“Okay,” Wyatt said. “I just didn’t want to get out ahead of you if you hadn’t—”
“Sheriff,” Garcia said. “Again, all due respect. But I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t get out ahead of me, or behind me, or anywhere around my investigation.”
“You want me to just go home. And call you with what I find out about that federal guy.”
Garcia nodded. “Yes, sir. I’d appreciate that.” He smiled thinly. “Enjoy your retirement.”
As he turned away, Wyatt had to choke back the impulse to smack the young detective on the back of the head for the condescending tone. But again, he had to admit, he’d have most likely done the same thing in Garcia’s position. It still wasn’t going to stop him from talking to Delwyn Chandler.
THE SUDDEN BLAST of heat and sunlight after the cool dimness of the motel room stopped Tyler in his tracks. He looked around in confusion, trying to get his bearings. The fear rising in him was screaming in his head. Move. Somewhere. Anywhere. Just run. He spotted the sign that said Office a long way down the concrete walkway where he stood. There’d be a phone there. He could call the cops. He headed that way at a dead run, his heart racing, the blood pounding in his ears. The door slammed open behind him. “Keith!’” Mick’s voice called, then he bellowed. “Keith!” Tyler didn’t turn. He ran past the rows of closed doors and windows with their thick curtains drawn against the outside world, straining every muscle like he was pounding toward a goal line. There were no other cars in the parking lot other than Mick’s Trans Am.
He reached the office door and grabbed the knob frantically. It turned, slippery in his sweaty palm, but the door wouldn’t open. Tyler sobbed with terror and frustration. It was only then that he noticed the Post-it note attached to the door. Back in 5 min. - MGR.
“No,” Tyler groaned. “No. No. No.” He turned to run again. He had no idea where. All he knew was that a man with a gun was behind him and every door in front of him was l
ocked. It was a moment out of nightmare, made even more surreal by the bright and sunny day.
A car pulled into the parking space in front of the office, a bright red Ford Focus, as shiny as if it had just come off the lot. Tyler stole a look back to see Mick advancing down the row of doorways, his pistol held out in front of him. Tyler ran to the side of the car just as a short, pale man with dark hair and a pronounced five o’clock shadow was getting out, holding a bag that said Zaxby’s in one hand and a set of keys in the other. He looked startled at Tyler’s sudden appearance by his vehicle. “Can I help you, sir?” he said, in an accent that Tyler couldn’t place.
“Call the police,” Tyler gasped. “I’ve been kidnapped.”
The man blinked. “Kidnapped?” He dropped his bag of food and his hand went to his throat as if he was choking. Blood began spurting from between his fingers just as Tyler registered the bang of Mick’s gun. A second report shattered the silence of the summer afternoon and the man sagged back against the car, another red bloom spreading across his chest as he slid to the ground, an expression of shock and terror on his face. Tyler staggered backward, nearly falling as he tried to backpedal away from the horror unfolding before him. He was stopped from crashing down by Mick’s arm as he came up from behind Tyler, the pistol still held on the man dying on the ground in front of them.
“Awwww, lil’ bro,” Mick said in a voice of real regret. “Look what you made me do.”
“No,” Tyler sobbed. “I didn’t.”
“You did.” Tyler wouldn’t look at Mick, but the voice in his ear was insistent. His arm tightened around Tyler’s shoulders. “I told you what would happen if you tried to get away, Keith. I guess you thought I was just bullshitting. But you were wrong. And look what being wrong can do.” The man on the ground was convulsing, his legs kicking as his body fought a losing battle for life. “I think you owe that guy an apology, Keith. Don’t you agree?”
Tyler didn’t answer; he was stunned and terrified beyond speech. Tears ran down his face as the hotel manager ceased his kicking and lay still. “I’m sorry,” he finally choked out. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, lil’ bro,” Mick said softly, giving Tyler’s shoulders a squeeze. “We all fuck up. It happens. But the important thing when you fuck up is to learn from it. You get what I’m saying?”
Tyler shook his head. He seemed incapable of forming a sentence. “I,” he said, then stopped. “How. What.”
“Here’s what you learn from this, Keith,” Mick said, and he brought his lips so close to Tyler’s ear that Tyler shuddered. “You don’t ask for help from strangers. Strangers will fuck you over. Every goddamn time. The only people you can trust are family. And not some fake family. Your own blood. You get me?” Tyler didn’t answer until he felt the pressure of the gun barrel against the soft hollow behind his jaw and beneath his right ear. “I said, you get me?”
“Just kill me,” Tyler sobbed. “You’re going to do it anyway.”
Tyler felt the pressure relax. “What?”
“Sooner or later, I’ll do something that pisses you off and you’ll pull that trigger. So just get it over with.”
Suddenly, the gun and the confinement of the arm around his shoulders were gone. Tyler turned to look at Mick. His brother was standing, the gun down by his side, looking at him with real hurt in his eyes. “Is that what you think of me, lil’ bro? You think I’d kill my own flesh and blood? After all this time apart, you think I’d do anything to hurt you?”
Tyler grabbed his head as if he was afraid of it exploding. “I can’t believe you!” he shouted. “Mick, you were just holding a goddamn gun to my head! Just now! Do you not even realize that?”
Mick looked at him, then looked down at the gun. “Aw, lil’ bro,” he said. “I’m sorry. I just get worked up sometimes. I don’t mean it.”
Tyler heard the roar of a big car engine. He turned to see Mick’s Trans Am pull up behind the red Focus. Lana leaned out the driver’s side window. “Get in,” she barked. “We need to haul ass outta here.”
“No,” Tyler said. “I’m not leaving. I’m done with this. I’m done.” As if to prove his point, he sat down on the hot pavement, sitting tailor fashion and crossing his arms over his chest.
“Well, Keith,” Mick said. He pulled a blue bandanna out of his back pocket and took the pistol by the barrel. He began carefully wiping down the grips and trigger of the gun. “I suppose I could leave you here with the dead body and the murder weapon. And you could try and convince people that I was the one who shot that poor fucker lying there. But if they ever catch up with us, Lana and me will say we’re running from you after you went crazy on the drugs they’ll find in your system.”
Tyler was stunned. “You gave me those. You slipped them to me.”
“So you say, lil’ bro. So you say. But you’d most likely be locked up while they sort all that shit out. And maybe they’ll believe you. Maybe they won’t.” He laid the gun gently on the pavement. “Or maybe you’ll end up dead in a jail cell in whatever bumfuck town is nearby.” He straightened up. “Or you could come with us. Your family. And we’ll keep you safe.”
“And this is what you call love, right Mick?”
Mick smiled. “Tough love, lil’ bro. Tough love. That means it’s for your own good.”
“Come on!” Lana insisted.
Tyler felt as if his head was coming apart. He looked over at the dead man, into his blank and staring eyes. He looked back up at Mick, who was holding out a hand.
“I hate you,” he whispered, but he took the hand and let Mick haul him up.
“I know, lil’ bro,” Mick said. “I know. Tough love is like that. But that’ll change. You’ll see.”
Never going to happen, Tyler thought. He got in the car anyway. Mick slid into the backseat behind him. He pulled out his phone and began tapping on it.
“What are you doing?” Lana said from the front seat as she stomped on the gas. The tires squealed as the car accelerated away from the scene.
“Lettin’ Mama know we’re coming.” He smiled. “It won’t be long now.”
AS SOON AS Luther was out the door, Savannah turned on Charleyboy. “You asshole!” she raged. “What did you tell him?” She raised the empty bottle in her hand as if to fling it at him.
He backed up, hands raised in front of him. “Nothing. I swear it. I didn’t tell him nothing about your boys.”
“How am I supposed to believe that, Charleyboy? Luther’s right. You got a big mouth. You love to play the fucking big shot. And now you may have put my sons in danger. My sons!” the last work rose to a shriek that left Charleyboy backed against the wall. Normally, a confrontation like this would begin with her berating him for some offense or slight and end with his own anger rising, shoulders and arms grabbed to the point of bruising, punches thrown, all by him. But this enraged woman was a stranger to him. The look in her eyes made him fear for the first time that she might actually kill him. She stood there, eyes wild, red hair disheveled and tangled about her beautiful face.
Suddenly, he felt his rising anger collapse, replaced by a sorrow so profound he felt as if it would crush his heart. How had it ever come to this? There had been so much love, so much promise when they’d first met. Their favorite song had been the one by Robert Earle Keene whose chorus they’d always sung along to while clinking the their long-necked beers together: “The road goes on forever, and the party never ends.” Now, a few years on, he could see the end of the road, and it didn’t end anywhere good. While he wasn’t looking, the party had ended. If she didn’t hate him already, she was getting there quickly. “I didn’t talk about you, baby,” he said softly. “At least I tried not to. I know what Luther is like. He’ll find what you care about and use it as a handle on you.”
“Yeah, no shit,” she said. “Now he thinks he’s got a handle on me.”
“I thought you were going to call them off. Tell them not to come.”
She shook her head. “That’
s what you thought. But I never said I’d do it. If you’d fucking listen to me…”
It was an old argument, and it steered him back into one of the old grooves that led to the old bad places. “Listen to you? Jesus Christ, when do I do anything else? You never shut the fuck up. Especially about those brats of yours.” It may not have been a good place they were in, but it was one he knew how to navigate. Or so he thought.
As he advanced on her, ready to do what it took to shut her up, she didn’t back away, fearful and suddenly placating, the way she’d always done before. She stood her ground, eyes blazing. “You touch me,” she said in a low, vicious voice, “you’re going to find out I have friends of my own.”
That stopped him, but only for a moment. He laughed derisively. “You think Mr. Luther is your friend? You think he’s going to protect you? Jesus, you really are a stupid bitch.”
She stunned him again when she smiled. “No. Not him.” She raised her voice. “Winslow! Cahill! It’s time we all had a talk.”
“GODDAMN IT!” Winslow ripped the headphones off. “What is that crazy bitch doing?”
“She’s playing her trump card,” Chance replied. She took off her own headphones. “We need to go in and talk to Charleyboy. Bring him to our side.” She stood up and headed for the door. “On second thought, not us. Me.” She gestured toward the street. “We don’t know that Luther hasn’t set up his own surveillance on this place. And no offense, but you can’t help but look like a cop.” She barked out a laugh. “Me, I’ve been told for years I don’t look like one. Besides, I don’t have a lot of rapport with Savannah, but I’ve got a damn sight more than you.”
Winslow shook his head, but the frustrated expression on his face showed he didn’t have a better idea. “Just be careful,” he muttered.
“Why, Agent Winslow,” she said. “I’d almost think you cared.”
He smiled weakly. “I just don’t want to have to do the paperwork if you get yourself killed.”
“Now there’s the Winslow I know and really don’t love.” As she moved to the door, he spoke up. “You can’t go out on the street with your sidearm. If Luther’s people are watching, it’s a dead giveaway.”
Fortunate Son Page 13
