Fortunate Son

by J. D. Rhoades

  She smiled sardonically. “You going to report me?”

  He shook his head. “I wouldn’t know which office to go to.”

  “Okay, then.”

  Winslow was sitting up in bed, his shoulder bandaged and an IV running into the other arm. He smiled weakly as they entered. “Hey, Cahill.” He looked over at Wyatt. “Who’s your friend?”

  Wyatt stuck out his hand. “Wyatt McGee. From North Carolina.”

  Winslow nodded. “So you’re the one that’s been tracking Savannah Jakes’s sons. Or maybe I should say son.”

  “No,” McGee said. “There’s two boys. One of them, Mick, shot a police officer at the house on Esteban Street. We were there looking for you.”

  “Thanks. But you’d better pull up a chair. I’ve got some stuff to tell you. Let’s just say things have taken a turn for the weird.”

  SAVANNAH AWOKE late in the morning, the sun streaming through the high windows of the upstairs bedroom. She’d slept well in the huge antique canopy bed that looked as if it had been made before the turn of the twentieth century. This room, at least, had been cleaned sometime in the last few weeks. She couldn’t say the same for some of the other rooms she’d looked into as they passed down the long hallway. “The boys are going to get a decent place to sleep, right?” she’d asked, adding, “and Mick’s girlfriend,” as an afterthought.

  He’d nodded. “It’s the servant’s quarters,” he’d said, “but they’re clean.”

  She’d refused Cully’s offer of a t-shirt to sleep in. She was trying to inveigle the strange man into helping her and the boys while still keeping her distance, and wearing Cully’s clothes felt too much as if it might encourage him to be more forward. The room had its own bathroom, and she took the opportunity to relieve herself before searching for the skirt and blouse she’d been wearing. As she put them back on, she wrinkled her nose. First order of business was a car, but a change of clothes wasn’t far behind. She’d been in these for what seemed like a year. Her stomach was growling. Wonder if there’s any food in the house.

  When she went to the door, it was locked from the outside.

  “HOLY SHIT,” Chance said. “That’s…unexpected.”

  Wyatt shook his head. “I’m not sure I believe it. This DeWalt character stole Mick Jakes’s identity? And Tyler Welch doesn’t recognize that the guy he’s with isn’t his own brother?”

  “It’s been a lot of years,” Winslow said. “And this guy’s a dead ringer. I’ve seen his picture.”

  “But why?” Chance said. “I mean, stealing Mick’s identity is one thing. But then going off on this crusade to help the woman who’s not actually his mom? What’s the point?”

  Winslow nodded to acknowledge the point. “I’ve been thinking about that while I’ve been lying here.” He pushed the button to raise the bed so he could see them better. “Say you’re Kevin DeWalt. You end up in jail with Mick Jakes. Both of you can’t help but notice the resemblance. You laugh about it. You get to be friends. People make jokes about how you could be brothers. And Mick opens up. He talks about his mom and his long-lost brother. How he was torn away from his family and everything’s been shit since. And how if he could only get back to that family, life would be better. It’d be like starting over.”

  Chance frowned. “I still don’t see—”

  Winslow interrupted her. “Say you hear this and you have no family of your own. Or your family’s the kind of nightmare that creates guys like you, guys with more loose screws than a thirty dollar bookcase from Walmart. Mick’s fantasy starts becoming your own. You start thinking about them as your own family. Then you hear that Mick’s dead. You see a message on Facebook that Mom’s looking for you. That’s your chance. A chance to have a better life. A chance to have the family you never had.”

  Wyatt rubbed his hand over his face, trying to process it all. “It’s crazy. But it fits.”

  “If it’s true,” Chance said, “then Savannah’s in more danger than ever. She’s following some kind of goddamn psychopath.”

  Winslow shook his head. “I don’t think DeWalt will hurt Savannah directly. Remember, in this fantasy, she’s his long-lost mom. But he also sees himself as her white knight. He’ll do anything to protect her. But his judgment isn’t the best.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Chance said. “So we can’t let him know we know. Or her. I mean, what happens when this fantasy of his comes crashing down around his ears? What happens when Savannah finds out the guy she thought was her son is an imposter and rejects him?”

  “Good question. Let’s not find out if we don’t have to.”

  “Okay,” Chance said. “So when are they going let you out of here?”

  Winslow shrugged. “A couple of days. The bullet wound fucked up the nerves in my shoulder and arm and I’m going to be doing a lot of PT. But what they’re mostly concerned about is infection. Apparently, South Louisiana water isn’t the cleanest in the world. Maybe all the chemicals will give me superpowers.”

  She laughed. “You just get better, Winslow.”

  “That’s the plan. So what are you doing next?”

  She looked at Wyatt. “Well, he’s going home. I’m going to try to talk to your agent in charge. See what he knows. Maybe he’s chased down who this impostor is.”

  “But you’re…” Wyatt stopped at her look.

  “She’s what?” Winslow spoke up.

  “Up for way too long,” Wyatt amended. “She needs some sleep.”

  Winslow didn’t look convinced. “Look,” he said, “there’s something you should know.” He took a deep breath. “Caspar Gutierrez told me things. Things about this operation. Things that only someone with a source in the DEA could know.”

  Chance whistled. “Fuck.”

  Winslow nodded. “Well put. And he’s going to war with Luther. Going after Luther’s assets. It’s going to get nasty out there. So be careful, okay?”

  “You too, Winslow. Will you be all right?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “Just get well, man.” Chance took Wyatt by the arm to steer him out of the room. “Look,” she said, “while I’m here, you mind if I see if I can track down Knight?”

  “Who?”

  “The deputy who got shot. The lieutenant said he was here, too. I want to drop in. Pay my respects.”

  Wyatt nodded. “Sure. No problem.”

  SAVANNAH FOUGHT BACK the urge to scream and pound on the door. She knocked as calmly as she could. “Cully?” she said. She couldn’t stop her voice from shaking. “Cully?”

  In a moment, she heard the rattle of a key. The lock clicked. “Step back from the door,” Cully’s voice came through the thick wood. “Stand against the back wall.” Heart pounding, she complied. The door opened and Cully entered, holding a pistol in his right hand. She wondered if he’d been standing outside. Waiting. Listening for her to discover she was trapped. Maybe even savoring the moment. Savannah felt as if she was going to throw up.

  “What’s going on, Cully?”

  He just stared at her with his dead eyes. “You didn’t tell me the person you’re running from is Mr. Luther.”

  “What?” She laughed, a high, tense laugh that would fool no one. “No. Mr. Luther, he’s a friend.”

  “Don’t lie, Savannah,” he said. “It’s all over the street. He’s looking for you. And your boys.”

  “Cully. Please. Where are my boys?”

  “I can’t save them. But I can save you.”

  She couldn’t hold back the tears. “Please,” she sobbed. “I’m begging you. Charleyboy’s your friend.”

  “Charleyboy’s dead.”

  She felt the breath go out of her. “Dead.”

  “Caspar Gutierrez has him. If he’s not dead, he’s begging for death by now.”

  She felt her stomach leaping into her throat and barely made the bathroom before she was spewing into the antique porcelain toilet. The spasms racked her, over and over, combining with her convulsive sobs un
til she hung onto the toilet to keep from toppling over on her side. She could hear his voice behind her, that toneless, unaffected voice that made her skin crawl.

  “I’ve talked to Luther,” Cully said. “His people are on their way. They’ll take you. And the boys. And that girl, although she’s so out of it, they may not have much use for her. Maybe in one of their houses. You know the type I mean.”

  Shut up, she thought desperately. Shut up. She noticed the toilet paper stand next to the commode. It was sturdy, made of pitted brass, with a broad, heavy base. Cully’s maddeningly calm voice went on. “But I can bargain with him. Tell them you’re with me. I can cut a deal for you. All you have to do is—”

  “Shut up!” She staggered to her feet, heedless of the snot running down her nose or the drool on her chin. She snatched up the stand with desperate strength and swung the base hard at him, stepping into the swing like Babe Ruth going for the fences. The brass rod holding the roll of paper came loose and clattered onto the bathroom floor. Cully stepped back out of the way as the base of the stand smashed into the door. His rapid retreat caused him to stumble and fall backward.

  Sobbing with rage and terror, she jumped forward and swung again, overhand this time, her strength that of desperation and fury. The base connected with the lintel of the door, smashing plaster and splinters of wood down on her. Cully pushed on the floor with his heels, eyes wide with panic, scuttling away like a bug. She stepped forward, clearing the doorway as he raised the gun. His shot smacked into the plaster of the ceiling as she brought the stand down like an ax. The heavy brass base caught Cully across the bridge of his nose, the crunch of breaking bone vibrating all the way up the shaft to her shoulders. She groaned with the effort as she raised the stand, then brought it down again on his face. And again. And again, until there was nothing left of the front of Cully’s skull but bloody meat with bone shards sticking out. She fell to her knees and let the stand drop, panting like a marathon runner. She looked at Cully’s smashed face. One eye had been popped from its socket and stared up at her from the blood covered chin. “I have fucking had it,” she whispered savagely to that eye, “with people fucking with my family.”

  After a moment, she staggered to her feet. Her stomach twisted again as she saw what she’d done, but there was nothing left for her to throw up. Her knees wobbled a bit as she walked out of the bedroom and down the hallway. There were a half-dozen doors before you got to the stairway, all closed. “Mick?” she called out. “Keith!” There was no answer. She remembered Cully had said they were in the servant’s quarters. She roamed the darkened house until she came to a place where the hallways were narrower, with no decoration or artwork on the walls. “Mick! Keith!”

  “Mama?” Keith’s voice came from behind one of the doors. “Mama!”

  She ran to it. “Keith?” She tried the knob. Locked. Cully had fixed all the doors on this floor to lock from the outside. Why he’d done that was something she didn’t want to think about right now. “Keith, baby, have you seen Mick?”

  From the door across the hall, she heard the pounding of a fist from inside. “Mama!” Mick yelled. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Mick.” Stop shaking, she ordered her legs. Stop it. “I need to go find a key. I’ll be right back.” She remembered the rattling of the key in her bedroom door and realized with a sick feeling she was going to have to go back in the room where Cully’s body lay and search his corpse for the keys. No, something in her shrieked. No. No. Run. Run as far and fast as you can.

  She spoke out loud. “I’m not leaving my boys.” She had to force herself back down the hallway by a sheer effort of will, back to where Cully lay in a slowly spreading pool of blood on the hardwood floor. She gritted her teeth, knelt down, and felt inside one front pocket, then the other. “Where the hell are your keys, you son of a…” She bowed her head for a moment, dreading what she had to do next. She grabbed his body and rolled him over. The action caused the air still in his lungs to escape in a long, low shuddering moan. She screamed and leaped away. Then she gathered herself together, forced herself to crawl back to him, and found a keyring in his back pocket. She ran out of the room and down the hall. She let Keith out of his room, then Mick. The three of them embraced for a moment, Savannah fighting back tears, Keith not even trying. Mick broke the hug first and looked around. “Where’s Lana?”

  “I don’t know, baby, but we have to go. Now. Cully said they were coming.”

  “Who?” Keith asked.

  “Bad people. People who’ll hurt us.”

  Mick shook his head. “I ain’t leaving without Lana.”

  “Damn it, Mick, she’s just a…” She stopped.

  Mick’s face darkened. “Just a what?”

  Just a whore, Savannah had been thinking. What stopped her was the memory of how many times she’d heard that term applied to herself. Mothers of boys she’d had crushes on. Ex-girlfriends of boys she’d loved. She remembered the sting of Winslow’s words. What’s the shelf life of an aging drug whore? That bastard.

  “Okay, Mick. Go find her.” She handed him the keyring. “But hurry. We’ve got to go.” He took the ring, nodded, and began going door to door.

  The thought of Winslow made her remember the phone still buried deep in her purse. She’d thought that lifeline permanently severed when she’d stolen Cahill’s car. But Cahill was a cop. And, Savannah admitted grudgingly to herself, a good one. If Savannah called for help, Cahill would come, and most likely bring the cavalry. She went back to the bedroom and fetched her bag, trying not to look at the body on the floor. Self-defense, she said. I’ll say it was self-defense. She hesitated before picking up the gun that still lay on the floor. She stuck that in her bag and went back out in the hallway.

  Keith was sitting there, on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest. He looked so forlorn, it broke Savannah’s heart. She sat down on the floor next to him, so close that their shoulders and hips touched. “You okay, Keith?” He nodded, but his eyes were far away. Someplace he’d rather be. The thought strengthened her resolve. All her options were closed, save one. It wasn’t good, but she had nowhere else to turn. She reached in her bag and pulled out the burner.

  “What’s that, Mama?” Keith’s voice sounded like he’d been drugged.

  “It’s a phone a…a friend gave me,” she said. “If I needed to call for help. And I think this is a good time, don’t you?”

  His response was to throw his arms around her and bury his head in her shoulder. She leaned back and wrapped her free arm around him and turned the burner phone on. When it had gone through its short boot-up process, she hit the speed dial button with one hand. Anything for you. Anything. The phone rang on the other end. Someone immediately picked up.

  It was Cahill. “Savannah.”

  “Mama.” The voice came from down the hall. She turned her head.

  Mick was standing by the room where she’d killed Cully. He was carrying what looked like an AK-47. A pistol hung in a leather holster on his belt. Lana stood beside him. Savannah noticed with alarm that her face was bruised. There were other bruises on her skinny arms. But what mostly got her attention were the stubby black machine pistols she carried in each hand. “Come look what we found, Mama,” Mick said, beaming as if he was a kid showing off a frog he’d caught or an interesting rock.

  Lana smiled, and Savannah saw her lower lip was split and swollen. “You said that son of a bitch could get things.” Her voice was slurred, but her eyes were bright and hard. “And damned if you ain’t right.”

  “Savannah!” Cahill’s voice was tinny and distant in the phone’s tiny speaker.

  Savannah killed the connection and stood up, bringing Keith up with her. “Show me what you found.”

  THEY’D TRACKED LANNY Knight to the ICU, a collection of small rooms with sliding glass doors around a central nurse’s station. The nurses there had been even fiercer about restricting access to their patient than the ones around Winslow. Even Chance’s badge didn�
��t seem to impress them, until a woman carrying a Styrofoam cup in one hand stepped up to where Chance was arguing with a dark-haired nurse who was built as solidly as an Omaha Beach pillbox and was about as easy to pass. “Excuse me,” the woman said.

  Chance turned on her, ready to snap a tart reply, but pulled back from it. “You’re Lanny’s wife, aren’t you?”

  The woman nodded. She was lovely, with light brown skin and hazel eyes. Her hair and nails looked like they would cost half a deputy’s weekly paycheck. She held out one perfectly manicured hand to Chance. “I’m Latiesha Knight. You’re from the sheriff’s department, right?” She cast a doubtful eye on McGee, who was hanging back, apparently trying to be invisible.

  Chance took the hand in both of hers. “Yes. I’m Chance Cahill. Latiesha, I’m so sorry for what happened to Lanny. We’re going to get the people who did this. I promise.”

  Latiesha’s lower lip quivered. “Thank you. This has been…really….” She took a deep, shuddering breath and squared her shoulders. “Thank you for coming.” She turned to the scowling nurse. “If she wants to visit my husband, it’s okay.” She looked over at Wyatt McGee. “And him, too. I guess.”

  “That’s okay,” McGee said. “I’m just her ride.”

  “I’ll have to ask the doctor,” the nurse said, and stalked off, clearly unhappy with her authority being questioned.

  “Thanks,” Chance said. She didn’t wait, but headed determinedly for one of the cubicles. A paper sign on the chart rack next to the door said, Knight, L.

  Inside the tiny room, Lanny Knight lay, eyes closed, under a thin hospital blanket. Tubes and wires ran beneath the blanket from incomprehensible medical devices and monitors. A heart monitor beeped, slow and regular. A rhythmic click-hissss let Chance know he was still breathing. She sat down in a metal chair next to the bed and took Lanny’s hand. The hand seemed so cold, it was as if he was already dead. “Hey, buddy,” she said softly, “it’s Chance Cahill.”