“Where?”
“Everywhere.” She hugged her knees to her chest. “Willow Court, this afternoon.”
“And what happened?”
“He thinks we called the police on him. That we ratted him out. Evie, I…” Her eyes welled up. “I told him something I shouldn’t have.”
She peeled a strip of white paint from the step, the flecks sticking to her fingers, and stared at it. I sat down next to her so she wouldn’t have to avoid my eyes. “It’s okay.” Though I was certain it wasn’t.
“When he hit me the other day, it just slipped out. I called him a murderer. I told him what you said about your mom. How he’d killed her. And he didn’t deny it.”
“Geez, Cassie.” When we’d still lived at Willow Court, I’d fallen flat on my back from the monkey bars, the impact so jarring I hadn’t even cried. I’d just laid there, eyes fixed to the clouds. Lungs empty of air, wheezing. That’s how I felt with Cassie’s confession bouncing around in my skull. Like there wasn’t enough air. “What did he say?”
She shook her head.
“Tell me.”
“That I should stop hanging out with you. Because when you’re around, bad things happen…and bad things might happen to me too.”
“So he threatened you?”
She shrugged. “What’re we gonna do?”
“I don’t know.” But I lied. Already, I’d gone to a dark place. Darker than dark. To something Trey had asked me once, weeks after he’d started living with us. My mom lay passed out on the bed, and I’d been watching the rise and fall of her chest, so slow I’d wondered if she’d stopped breathing.
“Ever think what life would be like without her?” Trey had sat down next to me, and I froze. I couldn’t even shake my head no like I’d wanted to. “I bet you do. My mama was just like yours. And hell, sometimes I wanted nothin’ more than to put her out of her misery. Go ahead,” he’d said, nodding at the nightstand. The plastic baggie, the spoon, the needle still half-filled with my mother’s blood. “I won’t tell.”
I’d scooted away from him, as close to my mom as I could get, and burrowed into the sickly sweet smell of her. Trey had put his dirty hand against my cheek, caressing it, and I’d clenched my teeth so hard my jaw ached.
Way down, in the dank basement of my heart, I blamed my mother for all of it.
“Think about it, Evelyn.”
That’s when I knew for sure Trey was the devil. That he could see into me, to the parts I hid from everybody else. And then, when he’d gone and done it himself—put my mom down like an old dog—I knew it was my fault. My curse. Evil Evie.
But sitting next to Cassie, crying on the porch steps, I realized Trey and I weren’t so different. How else could I explain the sinister thought that had come to life in my brain? We shared something my mother never had, always thinking she needed to leave him to make her escape. As much as it gutted me to admit, Trey and I had something in common. A wicked imagination.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
Evie
January 18, 2017
Wednesday
Some places appear exactly the way you’d imagine. Like you’d conjured them in a dream. And if I’d imagined 10 Eagle Pass, if I’d pictured the hole Trey crawled back into, this would’ve been it.
I follow the dirt road for at least ten minutes before I see it. A turnoff. A mailbox, half-standing, in the weeds. But the fence is in good shape, new barbed wire—not a hint of rust—pulled taut. And there’s an iron gate, padlocked shut. I drive past and park on the shoulder a ways up. When I crack the door, the cold rushes in and slaps me to my senses.
What am I doing here? At Trey Waters’ house. His compound, by the looks of it. And definitely still his. At lunch, I’d searched the address I’d never forgotten on my work computer. But it hadn’t told me what I’d find here. Who I’d find. Or what the hell I’d been thinking coming here alone.
I lock the car and slip on my jacket, determined not to be afraid. I’m not a little girl anymore. And I need to see Trey again. For closure. For confrontation. Or something in between. Then there’s the nagging hope, nibbling at my heart. That Cassie’s here. That Trey knows where she is or what happened to her.
I don’t bother with the gate. Just maneuver around the barbed wire, slipping through the seams unscathed, except for a tiny snag on my sleeve. Past it, a field stretches as far as I can see. There’s a faint smell of smoke from the charred mountain of junk at its center. A recent bonfire, I’d guess. Someone’s placed a worn-out armchair at the periphery, and it reminds me of my mother. I wonder if I’d misjudged her, carrying that hideous yellow sofa. Maybe she’d only wanted to make the Blue Bird more of a home. Maybe she’d done it to make me happy.
I’m not a little girl anymore. So I walk on, ignoring the gnawing in my gut.
The house—if you can call it that—has collapsed partway, the wood rotted and bare. All but one of the windows has broken or gone missing, and the door’s been stripped from its hinges and tossed on the porch, as if someone or something desperately wanted in. Or out. What sunlight remains burns through the gaping hole at the entrance—so bright I have to look away. Like it’s the gateway to hell. And the thought of Trey in there, flames licking at his feet, makes me pick up my pace.
To my right, a semicircle of travel trailers, their wheels removed, their windows curtained with bedsheets. Two poles staked in the earth anchor a clothesline where men’s T-shirts and a pair of blue jeans hang stiff as death. Not even a breeze to rustle them. A lacy red bra has fallen to the ground. It looks like something my mother would’ve worn.
If I listen hard, I hear the murmur of a television. Maybe a sitcom rerun, because the laughter sounds canned. I move closer until I can make out voices too. Until I can see the space behind the trailers. And even though I’m not a little girl anymore, my blood turns to ice, fixing me in place. Because parked in the high grass, next to a blue pickup truck, I spot Trey’s Buick.
What am I doing here? The question clung like a wet blanket. Only one answer. Cassie.
But now that I’m practically on Trey’s doorstep, I can barely breathe. I find a place to hide. To think too. But mostly to hide. I’m good at that, always have been. Near the first trailer, I duck behind a corroded washing machine, grown-up with thistle. And I wait without knowing what I’m waiting for.
Except for the hum of the television, the only sounds out here are wild ones. I focus on my favorite, an owl’s soft hooting, soothing as a mother’s cooing lullaby—a mother different from mine in every way. Until.
The low growl of an engine, louder and louder still. The crunch of gravel under tires. And my heart, rat-a-tatting away. Someone’s coming.
I risk a quick glance and my breath quickens. It’s a black jeep with a license plate I recognize. A driver I recognize. Careful to stay hidden, I slip my cell phone from my jacket pocket and snap a photo as Danny climbs out.
He must’ve been expected, because the middle trailer’s door opens before he reaches it. It sticks a little at first, then squeaks.
“Hey, Dan the Man, what’s shaking?” Though his face is out of my view, Trey’s lilt makes my skin crawl. He sounds too gracious. Like a man ready to stick a knife in your back.
“I’m freakin’ out man. I got the cops on my ass, and Matthias said I could hole up here for the night. That you might have a hook-up on crossing the border, gettin’ the hell outta Dodge.”
“Sure. Sure, buddy. But you’ve gotta relax. Here. This’ll take the edge off.” I hear the pop of an opened can, and I picture it on Danny’s mouth, the beer sloshing with his chew on its way down his throat. I nearly gag. “Listen, Dan-Dan, they’ve got nothin’ on us.”
“You mean they got nothin’ on you.”
“If you’d have done exactly what I told you, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“Ye
ah, well, I keep tellin’ you that guy showed up outta nowhere. What was I supposed to do?”
“Well, first off, not use your goddamned real name from the get-go. And finish the job for two.” Finish me. That’s what Trey means. “Should’ve done it myself when I had the chance.”
“I don’t get what your deal is with her anyway. She doesn’t know nothin’ about it. Nobody does.”
“You don’t know what she knows. She’s too smart for her own britches. Me and her, we got history. And it ain’t purdy.”
“You think she talked to Violet?”
“Keep your mouth shut about Violet. She was stickin’ her nose into things. And that’s the sort of trouble you find when you stick it where it don’t belong.” He shrieks with the kind of laughter that stains your soul. “But you know all about that, don’t you, Dano? Get it? Stick it where it—”
“Alright. Alright. I get it. I ain’t tryin’ to overstep. I just wanna get out of here. Start fresh.”
“Sure thing, man. You just sit tight and let me take care of everything. Don’t worry. I got your back. We’ll get you on your way to Mexico in the mornin’.” Trey had told my mother not to worry once. After a guy had stiffed her. He’d been found the next morning in the Blue Bird parking lot, naked and beaten to a pulp with a tire iron.
“Thanks, Trey. I guess that means we’re square, right? It means—”
The sudden sounds are the worst I’ve ever heard. A cry—“No!”—part groan, part wounded animal. The gun blast, the bursting apart of flesh that I can’t unhear. There’s no end to it. There never will be.
Even after I cover my ears.
Even after the memory explodes like a flashbulb. Cassie had said no too. And I’m back there again, newly thirteen and staring up at the hanging tree.
I’d started to feel funny like my legs had gotten too heavy to move. Like I might fall down.
“This is the hanging tree, ladies. Spooky, right? Who knows, you just might find the noose up there.”
Cassie’s laugh had sounded far away, tinkling like the highest note on the piano. I’d pressed my hand inside my pocket, reminding myself. The plan. We had a plan.
“We’re in Oakland. You said you’d take us to Pinole. I want to go there now.” It had taken so much energy to say, I’d leaned against the tree, exhausted. No way I could have made it back to the truck, though I’d seen it there, parked at the blackening edge of my vision.
“Your friend wants to hang out here for a while. Don’t ya, Cassie?” And when I’d looked, his back was to me, his arms hanging down thin and white and bony as the branches of the tree. Cassie had nodded, leaning around him to stick out her tongue at me.
My head had felt cottony, stuffed like an old toy. “How ’bout if I climb it?” I’d asked. “Will you take me then?”
But the faceless man had never answered. His mouth was busy with Cassie’s. And I’d started climbing, slow as a sloth. Only stopping to look back when I’d heard her say no. Her voice as clear and bright as a bell.
Just like Trey’s now. “Is he dead?”
And another man’s voice I don’t recognize. “Deader than a fuckin’ doornail, man.”
“You did good, brother. Help me drag him outta the goddamned front yard.”
I only realize I’m shaking when I lift my phone and hit camera. I force myself, by sheer will, to lean my head ever so slightly to the right.
Breathe, Evie.
I point the lens. Hit record. And then, only then, I look up. My heart stills.
The men are already gone. A small patch of grass in front of the trailers is flattened and darker than the rest. I wonder if the blood will seep into the soil. What will grow there.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
Butch
January 18, 2017
Wednesday
I’m going to regret this. And soon. That much I’m sure of. I’ve been hawk-eyeing the speedometer the whole way here, never pushing Melanie’s Mini Cooper more than five miles over the limit. Because, drumroll please, I’m driving without a license. In a car I don’t own. In a car I’d borrowed in exchange for a ninety-minute rubdown by Melanie herself on a date yet to be determined. I’ve stooped to an all-time low, selling my body for a foreign car the size of goddamned matchbox.
But it’s a pretty sweet ride, and now that my heart has stopped racing, I’m almost enjoying the drive up the freeway. Even if the powder blue paint job doesn’t say Butch Calder. Even if I don’t think I’ll remember how to get to Trey’s. I’ve only been there once. And right now, I am definitely lost. In the dark, on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, Pinole.
I fumble around for the brights, praying for a sign. But with the road lit up, I’m just as clueless. Fields and fences on either side of me and beyond, the night spilling out for what seems like forever.
I’d turned off on Eagle Pass Road at least ten minutes ago. And I haven’t seen any signs of life since. No cars. No joggers. Not even a damn raccoon. So it jolts me when I spot Evie’s car in the ditch. I pull up behind it and get out.
It’s so quiet out here. The kind of quiet a man can only dream about in prison, where the sounds—whispers and whistles and moans and curses—never stop. But it unnerves me, and I keep waiting for the ghosts of the past to arrive. For the ’Cuda to blaze past on a victory lap. With Gwen in the passenger seat, high on ecstasy. Cherice, sucking on my neck. And me, selfish and smack-dab between them, having my cake. Eating it.
Evie’s car is empty, and the hood is cold. I walk along the fence line toward the only light I can see—distant, but steady as the sun—until I reach a gate and a dilapidated mailbox. A set of new tracks on the dirt road. This is it. 10 Eagle Pass.
Fear can be a friend. Or a foe. I’d learned that in Folsom. When you feel it nestle against your breastbone, nudging you like a dog’s nose, you’d better pay attention. Show it some respect. Because if you don’t, sooner or later, it’s gonna bite. And I’m not ashamed to admit, working my way through the fence, I feel it. I’m afraid.
So I do what any self-respecting ex-con would do. I look for a weapon. At the edge of the bonfire, I find a rusted metal pipe that’ll do the trick. I hold it in my hand, feel the weight of it. It could dent a skull with a single swing. I drop it, pick it up again, drop it, and move on. If it comes to it, I’ll fight fair. With my fists.
Hard to believe, but the place hasn’t changed much. It’s like Trey in that way. Still broken down, burned out, fit for condemnation. The trailers are new though, and there’s a light on—the light I’d seen from the road—so I head toward them.
When I see the black jeep parked out front, fear turns rabid and gives me a good chomp right in the gut. The cops had been right. Danny knew Trey. Trey knew Danny. And Evie’s here alone.
I circle around back, past Trey’s Buick. And I crouch in the tall grass, listening. The TV’s playing inside, faint. An owl is doing his thing, making the whole scene a little more Vincent Price than I care for. I should’ve brought the damn pipe. And there’s a rustling to my right, a delicate chattering. With my eyes, I follow the sound to the washing machine.
“Evie.” I say it so soft I’m sure only the weeds brushing my face can hear me. But the chattering stops.
Just then, I hear Trey, the unmistakable rasp of the devil, coming from the trees and getting louder. Closer. “It’s fucking freezing out here, man. I’m takin’ my beer inside. We’ll finish up later.”
“What about the jeep?”
“Not now, dude. You’re killin’ my buzz.”
“Alright. We gotta get rid of these clothes. You got the gasoline?”
“It’s in the house. But chill, man. You’re making me nervous.”
Certain now my hunch is dead on, I make a run for it, crawling behind the washer where Evie sits, wide-eyed and cold. Her teeth knocking against themselve
s. I put my finger to her lips. Even though it seems like she’s gone mute. Like her voice has turned tail and taken off without her.
I wait for the trailer door to open and shut.
“We’ve gotta get out of here,” I whisper, shrugging off my jacket. “Put this on. You’re freezing.”
Her mouth opens slightly. She’s about to say something. But then she closes it again, takes the jacket, and slides her arms inside. I grab her hand and help her stand, her legs as wobbly as a newborn fawn. Then I tug her along behind me.
We make it as far as the jeep, when the trailer opens again. The pool of light I’d welcomed from the road now sends me scurrying for cover like a cockroach, dragging Evie with me. We duck behind the wheel and watch. At least I do. Evie buries her head in my shoulder.
A man—not Trey—staggers toward the pile of burned rubbish, carrying a bag and a gas can. He tosses the bag at the edge of the refuse, douses it, and strikes a match. The flames burst up, alive and hungry, and he stokes them briefly with the pipe I’d left there. Satisfied, he turns back toward the trailer, his face awash in firelight.
I know him.
I knew him.
And fear takes another snap at me, its teeth sinking in deep. Matthias. After he disappears inside the trailer, the TV gets louder and Evie croaks something quiet against my upper arm.
“They killed Danny.”
I hear it, but I don’t take it in. I don’t let myself feel it. Not yet. “Can you run?” I ask her, and she nods, clutching my hand.
I don’t look back. And I don’t slow down until I see the Mini. Powder blue is my new favorite color.
****
For the second time today, Evie’s in my arms. And damn, I’m starting to get used to it. But then, she wriggles away like I’d been holding her hostage. She pushes me back, shoving her hands against my chest. “Why didn’t you tell me you got arrested?”
I liked it better when she wasn’t talking. “Let’s get in your car. We’ll discuss it in there.”
Doctors of Darkness Boxed Set Page 60
