Fortunate Son

by J. D. Rhoades

  She looked down. “Shit.” In deference to the heat and the lack of air conditioning, she’d worn jeans and a thin t-shirt. There was no credible place to hide her service weapon once she took off her gun belt. She unbuckled it and handed it to Winslow. “If any shit starts—” she began.

  He cut her off. “Deputy Cahill,” he said, “I know you think I’m an asshole. In many ways, you are absolutely correct. But one thing I will never, ever do is fail to back up a fellow officer.”

  She nodded. Something passed between them in that moment, and she knew he was sincere. “Got it. Thanks.”

  “Here, take your earpiece,” he said, handing it to her. She looped it into her ear as he went on. “And I’m calling in some backup. Just in case. Don’t know when they’ll get here.” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite wrap his head around what was happening. “Things, ah, sort of moved faster than I expected.”

  “Yeah. Me too. Let’s just hope things don’t go south here.”

  He solemnly held up his right hand, index and middle finger crossed. She laughed and slipped out the door. It was only when she was in the street that she thought about the double meaning of crossed fingers. One meaning was a wish for luck. The other was the betrayal of a promise.

  CHARLEYBOY STARED at her, dumbfounded. “Baby. Baby. What did you do?”

  “What I had to do, Angus,” she said. “What I needed to do. For all of us.” She walked over to the couch and pulled the burner phone out from under the cushion. She held it up for a second.

  “Oh, fuck. Oh, Jesus, Mary, and motherfucking Joseph.” He ran his hands through his hair. “You can’t be serious.”

  “A lot more goddamn serious than this fucked up scheme you had to play Mr. Luther and Caspar Gutierrez off against one another.” She slid the burner into her purse.

  “You know that’s probably why he came by here, right? Because he knew you were talking to the law.”

  “If he knew that,” she said, “we’d both be dead now. Or dying, very slowly and painfully.” She shook her head. “He knows something’s up, sure. So he was hoping to rattle you—us—into wondering how much he knows.”

  “I’d say he did a hell of a job.”

  “Not really. We know now that he doesn’t know about what you’re playing with Gutierrez. Or about me talking to the feds.”

  “Because we’re not dead or dying,” he said bitterly.

  “Yeah. Exactly because of that.”

  There was a knock at the door. They looked at one another, frozen. “If it was Luther,” Savannah whispered, “he wouldn’t be knocking.”

  Charleyboy’s face was pale. He looked like he might pass out any moment. “We hope.”

  A voice came through the door. “This is Deputy Chance Cahill. St. Bernard Parish Sheriff’s Department. Let me in.”

  DELWYN CHANDLER LIVED in a small, neatly kept house on a dead-end street on the outskirts of Spencer. He greeted Wyatt on the tiny front porch, rising slowly from a light green rocker. He was tall and slender, with a lined face and kind eyes. An ancient spaniel lying beside the rocker raised his head and gave a half-hearted “woof” before settling back down, snout between his paws, and going back to sleep. Chandler regarded the dog with fond exasperation. He extended a hand to Wyatt. “Delwyn Chandler,” he said.

  Wyatt took the hand. The skin felt thin over bones that felt as if they might break at a firm pressure. “Wyatt McGee.”

  “Would you like some iced tea?” Chandler gestured at the pitcher and glasses already set out on the side table. Cut lemons waited in a dish by the pitcher.

  Wyatt was still a little parched from his hangover. Iced tea was just the remedy he needed. “I’d love some,” he said.

  After he’d taken a seat in a rocker that matched Chandler’s and fortified himself with a tall glass of tea, Wyatt didn’t know how to begin. Chandler noticed his discomfiture and filled in the gap. “You’re here to ask about Mick.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chandler sighed. “Such a sad and tragic boy.” He looked at Wyatt sharply. “Don’t read too much into that.”

  Wyatt was even more uncomfortable. He didn’t say anything because he didn’t know how.

  Chandler shook his head, more irritated than angry. “Sorry. We got a lot of nasty talk and innuendo, Merle and I. I got tired of it. Still am.”

  Wyatt found his voice at last. “Merle?”

  “My husband,” Chandler said. “Didn’t the sheriff’s department tell you anything?”

  “Not his name,” Wyatt said.

  “He never…” the words caught in Chandler’s throat, “never lived to see the law recognize what we were. Are.” He stopped, looked away, and took a deep breath before turning his attention back to Wyatt. “Sorry. I’m wandering.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” The prescribed words of sympathy were the easiest part of this conversation yet.

  Chandler’s eyes narrowed as if he’d detected mockery. Then he relaxed. “Thank you,” he said.

  “So how did Mick come to live with you?” Wyatt asked.

  “It was Merle’s idea,” Chandler said. “He always wanted children. At the time, though, adoption was out of the question for people like us. So we volunteered to be foster parents. But, of course, most social services departments were reluctant to place damaged children with the likes of us. Until they got desperate. Like Kassidey.”

  “She’d run out of alternatives.”

  Chandler nodded. “Yes. Even the inpatient mental health facilities had turfed him out.” He shook his head. “What kind of mental health system kicks a mentally ill child out of a facility for acting mentally ill?”

  Wyatt had no answer for that question. He’d seen the same thing over the years. “So how was Mick when he came to live with you?”

  The answer came back without thought or hesitation. “Angry.” Chandler shook his head. “Mick Jakes was the angriest person I’d ever seen. And really, who could blame him?”

  The dog by Chandler’s rocker gave a long, shuddering groan in his sleep and rolled over on his back. Chandler gave him an affectionate smile and reached down to scratch his belly. “Merle was so good with him. Even when I was about to tell the Social Services people we’d had enough, Merle convinced me to give him another chance.” He looked up at Wyatt with tears welling in his eyes. “I think Merle knew what being abandoned felt like. When he came out to his parents, they kicked him out and never spoke to him again. He was fourteen.”

  Wyatt tried to keep focused on Mick’s story. “So how did Mick respond?”

  “Slowly,” Chandler answered. “But he did respond. He stopped sneering and rolling his eyes at everything we said. He stopped lashing out in therapy. He stopped sneaking out to smoke weed with his stoner buddies.”

  “Did he ever talk about his brother?”

  “Oh, Lord,” Chandler groaned. “Did he ever. He was furious that they were being kept apart. He was going to get them back together. He was going to find their mother, and they’d be…” Chandler stopped for a moment. “A real family,” he said at last.

  “And you thought you were a real family.”

  Chandler reached down again to rub the sleeping dog’s stomach. “Mr. McGee,” he said, “do you know what it’s like to love someone with all your heart, and to have it not be enough?”

  The question staggered Wyatt for a moment. He thought of his first wife, Vanessa, who he’d left for Kassidey. Kassidey, who he’d left to try to reconcile with Vanessa, but who he still felt drawn to, and so that reconciliation had failed. And now Glenda, who he loved, but…had he inflicted that pain on them?

  Chandler didn’t seem to notice Wyatt’s reverie. “We gave that young man all the love we had to give, and more. But he could never stop thinking about the family he couldn’t have.”

  Wyatt cleared his throat. “So, have you heard from him?”

  Chandler shook his head. “Not recently. When he turned eighteen, he wasn’t in Social Services custod
y any more. They offered him help for independent living, but he seemed to want to put that relationship behind him. Again, who can blame him? He kept trying to find out what had happened to his brother. Social Services wouldn’t tell him.”

  “Did he leave?”

  “Eventually, yes. We let him know he could stay here as long as he wanted. He did, for a while. Then he got a job in Tennessee.”

  “Tennessee?”

  Chandler nodded. “Some sort of marketing thing. Merle and I thought it was a scam. But I think Mick just wanted out of North Carolina.” He sighed. “He sent us some e-mails. A couple of texts. Said he’d made some friends. One in particular. A guy named Kevin something. He called Kevin his ‘brother from another mother.’” He sighed. “See? Even then, he was still looking for a family.” He shook his head. “Then the e-mails stopped. I tried to get in touch with him when Merle got sick, but…” he shrugged, “…there was no answer and the number he texted from had gone out of service.”

  “Were you surprised when you found out he was back here?”

  Chandler nodded. “Surprised and hurt. I thought he was happy here. But he didn’t call. Or come by.” He looked away. “It was like he didn’t want to know us. Or like he never knew us.”

  “I’m sorry,” Wyatt said.

  Chandler looked back at him. “You know, I think you actually mean that.”

  “I do. So you never saw Mick when he was here?”

  “Well…” Chandler hesitated. “There was one time I thought I did.”

  Wyatt leaned forward. “Really? Where?”

  Chandler shook his head. “It was in the parking lot at the Food Lion. There was this boy, getting into a car with a girl. I could have sworn it was Mick. But he looked at me, and there was no recognition at all in his face. I just stood there as he drove away. When I got home, Merle told me I was imagining things. After all, he said, if it had really been Mick in town, he’d have…” Chandler stopped and took a long drink from his glass. When he finished, he said in a small voice, “He’d have acknowledged me. Acknowledged us. Unless…” His face began to crumple with sorrow as the implication hit him, probably not for the first time.

  Wyatt broke in. “Have you seen the video? Of the robbery?”

  Chandler regained his calm. “I heard about it. But no, I couldn’t stand to watch it. I couldn’t bear the thought of Mick…” he broke off. “Excuse me.” He stood up and went inside. The dog rolled over, then sat up, blinking, obviously confused. He looked at Wyatt and gave another lackadaisical “woof” before rising to his feet with a groan and ambling over to Wyatt’s chair. Wyatt reached down and scratched the dog behind the ears. Chandler came back, red-eyed but composed.

  Wyatt stood. “Thank you for your time, sir. And for the tea.”

  “You’re very welcome. And, Mr. McGee? If you find out anything about Mick, please let me know.”

  “Yes, sir,” Wyatt said. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

  As he walked back to the truck, his cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen. It was Kassidey. By the time he’d gotten back in the truck, the call had gone to voicemail. He redialed and she picked up on the first ring.

  “Wyatt. Where are you?”

  “I’m up in Spencer. Talking to Mick’s last foster parent.” He looked over to the porch where Chandler was tidying up the tea pitcher and glasses. He moved like a man grown old before his time. “It was a dead end.”

  “I checked Facebook,” Kassidey said. “I found Savannah Jakes. And, Wyatt…I think Mick did, too.”

  CHANCE TOOK THE big easy chair. Savannah and Charleyboy sat together on the couch. Savannah tried to put her arm around his shoulders, but he shrugged it off, not looking at her, and moved away. He sat with his head down and his hands dangling between his knees. Savannah sighed and looked at Chance.

  “Look, Charleyboy,” Chance said, “I know this isn’t what you planned. But you want to get out from under Luther’s thumb, right?”

  “Go to hell,” he mumbled.

  She ignored it. “This stands a better chance of that than this complicated double cross you’re setting up. And you won’t be switching one owner for another.”

  He looked up, his eyes narrowed. “No one owns me.”

  Chance leaned forward and spoke softly but firmly. “Wrong, Angus. Right now, I own you. The both of you. Me and the United States government.”

  “Right,” he sneered. “And who’s holding your leash?”

  “No one I can’t walk away from. Which is different from where you are right now, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Baby,” Savannah spoke up from the end of the couch, “you know she’s right. We need to get out of here. Out of this life. Not deeper into it.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not a goddamn rat.”

  Chance shrugged. “Maybe not. You can choose to walk out that door, but it’ll be in handcuffs. We’ve got enough for a conspiracy charge that’ll put you away for a while.” She looked over at Savannah. “Both of you.”

  “Bullshit.” His voice didn’t sound nearly as confident as his words. “She didn’t have anything to do with…with anything.”

  “Well, we can let the court sort that out. But you’ll spend some time in custody first. And maybe Luther or Gutierrez will believe that you’ll stay quiet. But I’ve looked at the DEA files, and I do know that Gutierrez, for one, isn’t known for taking chances. The last associate of his that got locked up in Texas disappeared right after he made bail. He turned up three weeks later in an abandoned house in the Mexican desert. What was left of him, at least. They’d tied him to a chair and tortured him with a power drill, probably to find out what he’d told the cops. They don’t think he was dead when they left him. Think about that, Charleyboy. They left him to bleed out, then to rot in the heat. Apparently, the Mexican authorities still talk in whispers about where they’d put that drill. And they’re not easy people to impress.”

  Winslow’s voice came through her earbud. “Damn, Cahill, you’re getting good at this.” She ignored him.

  Savannah had gone white. “You’re full of shit,” Charleyboy said, but he was looking pale as well.

  “Guess we’ll see.” Chance stood up. “But if I walk out that door, any deal you might make goes with me. The next ones through it will be a DEA strike team.”

  “Strike team?” Winslow said.

  Chance ignored him. “And we’ll let the chips fall where they may.” She started for the door. She was almost there when Charleyboy spoke up.

  “Wait.”

  Chance paused to compose herself and start breathing again before she turned around. “Yes?”

  “Okay,” he said, still looking down. “Okay.”

  “Wait,” Savannah said. “Any deal has to give some kind of protection to my boys.”

  Charleyboy looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, for god’s sake.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Chance said. “But Charleyboy’s right about one thing. The best thing you can do right now is call them off. Tell them not to come. Until things settle down.”

  Savannah shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

  “You know how Luther is. He’ll use what you love to hurt you.”

  “You can protect them.”

  Chance was getting frustrated. “I can.” She still didn’t know if that was true, but she was not going to give these two informants a chance to get off the hook. “But to make that happen, I need to talk to the people higher up. Call them off, Savannah. At least until we can make arrangements. Once we get that done, I’ll do everything I can to get you back together. I promise.”

  “That doesn’t mean shit to me,” Savannah flared up. “Once you people get what you want, you’ll move on. You won’t help me. Your kind never has.” She turned to Charleyboy. “Don’t tell them shit, baby. Not until they—”

  “Baby,” Charleyboy interrupted her, “fuck you.”

  She reeled back as if she’d been slapped. “What?�
�

  “You got me into this, bitch,” he snarled. His eyes were slits of rage. “I trusted you. I fucking trusted you, and you put me into this box where I don’t have any choice but to try to cut a deal. Now you want to tell me what deal to cut? Fuck you, and fuck your two brats.”

  She started for him, and he looked ready to go for her as well, when Chance spoke up. “Hold it!”

  They stopped, glaring at each other like prizefighters pried out of a clinch. “You need help?” Winslow said in her ear.

  “I got this,” Chance answered. She got between Savannah and Charleyboy. “We’re going to have some ground rules here. Rule one is no more hitting. I find so much as a bruise on her, Charleyboy, and all deals are off. You go into custody, and we see what happens after that.”

  “Cahill,” Winslow said, “You don’t have the authority to…”

  She was back to ignoring him. “We have an understanding here?”

  “Sure,” Charleyboy said. “Best way to avoid that is for her to get the fuck out. I don’t want to even fucking see that bitch anymore.”

  “Fine.” Savannah walked off toward the bedroom. “I’ll get my stuff.”

  “You have any place to go?” Chance called after her.

  “I’ll find something.” She disappeared into the back of the house.

  “Shit,” Chance said. She spoke to the hidden mike. “Winslow, we got any place for her to stay?”

  Charleyboy looked around. “Who are you talking to?”

  “We don’t have any safe houses in place,” Winslow responded. “If we had a little more warning…”

  “You’re wearing a wire, aren’t you?” Charleyboy said. “You’re wearing a goddamn wire.”

  “Of course I’m wearing a wire,” Chance said. “Now shut up and let me think.” She didn’t have any alternative but one. When Savannah came out of the bedroom, dragging a roller bag behind her. Chance told her, “You’re staying with me.”