“I’m coming!” Tariq shouted, and the barking stopped.
Tariq turned on his porch light and opened the door. The dog had been eager to get inside before, but he cowered when he saw Tariq, folding his tail beneath him, trying to disappear into the cement stoop. Pussy furball.
“Well, it’s about time, runt,” Tariq said.
A fucking black poodle. Not even a standard poodle, which would have been a noble animal, a hunter’s companion. Instead, this was one of the miniatures. A fucking toy poodle with flowing, hairy ears, more like a doll than an animal. Tariq leaned over to grab the dog’s collar so he could see the name tag, and he felt the dog’s limbs trembling.
ONYX, the tag said. At least it was the right dog. That part was the way it should be.
But what about the rest? Tariq stepped outside. He saw his Land Cruiser parked in the driveway, where it had been since he’d driven it home from Marcus Bookstore last night. That was not what he had expected, not at all. Motherfuck .
But wait….
A half-block down the street, perfectly illuminated by the wash of orange light from the streetlamp, he saw the olive-green paint of his VW van, parked and waiting. The chrome looked shinier than it had in a long time. Tariq felt his pocket, pulling out a single key dangling from a VW key-ring. He grinned. He liked it when things went smoothly. When things fell into place.
The dog, feeling more courageous, began sniffing Tariq’s shoes, ready to retreat at the slightest incentive.
“So? Like your new daddy?” Tariq said.
After more careful sniffing, the dog’s tail wagged. He barked, jumping up, his nails scratching Tariq’s calves. The scratching annoyed Tariq, but he kept his head. He and the dog had to get along, at least for a while. He and the dog had work to do.
Tariq had thrown the entire contents of his refrigerator onto the floor during his tantrum last night, so he took the dog into the kitchen to let him start lapping away at the linoleum. That would fill him up. He moved the bucket of stale KFC before the dog could get to it, though. Chicken bones weren’t good for dogs. He couldn’t let Onyx choke, not before he was returned to his rightful owner.
That was how it worked. Thebaka took away, and thebaka gave back.
“Bon appétit,”Tariq said. “Enjoy the cuisine. I’ve got packing to do.”
He wouldn’t need much, but there were a few things he wanted to take with him now that his van was here, his rebirth complete. He needed fresh clothes, his electric razor, his dumbbell set. His baseball bat, a few sharp knives from the kitchen drawers, some rope from the garage.
The necessities.
And he didn’t have much time. As much as Tariq hated to be rushed, he was in a hurry. It all went back to that sniveling, loudmouthed mama’s boy, DuShaun. There were a hundred different ways Tariq might have shut him up for good last night, but he had not. Hehad not, for reasons that would forever mystify him. And because of that one oversight, he had to leave now—because DuShaun was at Oakland International picking up Harry this very instant, waiting outside the security gate. Granted, it was hard to believe Harry would make a special trip from Atlanta over a little old-fashioned ass whupping. Ass whupping wasn’t new to Harry; their father had delved out plenty to them and their sisters, worse than what DuShaun had gotten. But irrational or not, his brother was arriving on a United flight this very minute. DuShaun was planning to bring Harry over to his house, and then the two of them were going to surprise him here, or so they thought. Even Reese might show up. DuShaun had called him, too.
Was that some shit?
Well, they would have to have their little Twelve Step party without him. As tempting as it might be to hang around and hear what they had to say, there was a considerable principle in the matter: You don’t kill people just because they are annoying you. That was senseless, bad form. Whenever possible, you only kill the people you are supposed to kill. The people whoneed killing.
Take his lovely dream about fishing. Tariq appreciated the dream’s symbolism: He and the boy had beenfishing . Fishing, that is, for answers. Fishing for solutions. For lessons.
He must teach That Bitch a lesson. Her gall was staggering, even now. She hadn’t learned her lessons yet, after all this time. Had she thought for a moment that just because her flesh had died, her lessons were over? Had she really expected to hide her remaining line? Her insipid spirit had dogged him for more than two years, scrabbling to confuse him, to undo his future. Tariq knew she was watching still, and that knowledge kept him moored to his undertaking. On task, as he used to say.
Neither DuShaun nor Harry and Reese were a part of his undertaking. And that meddling queer Brother Paul wasn’t either, as much as Tariq would like to pay him a special visit.So close, Brother Paul, so close. You would have died in the process because you underestimated what you were playing with, but That Bitch was trying to work through you. She’s a strong one, That Bitch.
Maybe he’d see about Brother Paul another time, another night. Let her watch that, too. Let her see more innocents suffer.
“Keep watching,manbo . Where are your friends Shangó and Oyá now, you pompous bitch? What good is your stolen word now?” Tariq said. He flung clothes into his leather duffel bag so he and Onyx could make their exit without interference or lectures.
Marie Toussaint would have plenty to watch now.
The Tariq Hill Showwas about to hit the road.
Eighteen
SACAJAWEA
WEDNESDAY NIGHT
THERE WAS NO OFFICIAL MEETINGscheduled in the Sacajawea Town Council chambers at the rear of the courthouse, but by eight o’clock the room was thronging with more than a hundred and fifty people, their faces washed of pigment by the fluorescent lights overhead. The seats had filled long ago, but more people would have come if there had been more notice. A deputy posted at the door made certain no one under eighteen got inside, not even with a parent. “Grown people’s business,” the deputy told the teenagers, who were circling like hawks. It was an angry-looking crowd, Angela noticed. Faces wore skeptical scowls, and many of the people gathered were twitching, ready for a confrontation.
Angela blinked, and tears escaped from both eyes. She turned to look for Myles. She’d staked out a spot at the rear center pillar not far from the door, hoping he would arrive in time. As much as she’d hated to tip off anyone at theLower Columbia News, Myles belonged here. But where was he? She’d called him forty-five minutes ago.
Rob and Melanie made their way to the front of the room, and people parted to let them pass. They were holding hands, not looking at anyone as they walked. Rob was wearing his uniform, but his hat was in his hand. He and Melanie walked until they stood between the American flag and the painted Sacajawea emblem on the wall; a collage of an eagle, a Lewis and Clark trail map, and the long-haired profile of the city’s namesake, Sacajawea. The meeting was about to start.
Angela looked for Myles again. This time, she saw an electric blue shirtsleeve winding its way into the doorway, a shade borrowed from the streets of Rome, and she knew it was him. No other man in Sacajawea owned a dress shirt that color. Myles was trying to ease one shoulder past the crowd in the doorway, a thin reporter’s notebook clutched between his fingers.
The deputy tapped Myles’s shoulder. “Sorry, sir. No press.”
“Colin, give me a break. I didn’t bring a photographer. I live here, too.”
The deputy hesitated, then waved him in despite grumbles around him. Myles hurried to Angela’s side. He leaned over, kissing her cheek. “You all right?” he whispered.
She nodded. “Yes,” she said. The more precise answer was a long story—but the gist of it was yes, she was as well as she could be, given what she’d seen today. All she’d noticed in the past hour was a headache and occasional spasms in her legs, when she thought they would buckle beneath her. But even those were subsiding. She was doing better than she’d thought she would.
On the small elevated stage in front, a tech handed R
ob a microphone attached to a small amplifier, and Rob rested his hat on the podium where Art usually lorded over town council meetings. When Rob raised the microphone to his mouth, the amplifier squealed loudly, making a few people near the front cry out in surprise. Rob put the microphone down. “Listen, uh…I’m not gonna use that thing. Can everybody hear me all right?”
The group murmured yes. Drifting conversations in the rear died, and the next time Rob spoke, the room was so hushed he didn’t have to raise his voice. Rob’s eyes shone like red marbles.
“Thanks to everybody for coming,” he said, and he had to clear his throat twice before going on. “These are unusual circumstances, and I appreciate you coming out to hear what I have to say. I couldn’t think of what else to do but call a town meeting, since the phones at my office have been ringing off the hook. Instead of telling ya’ll one at a time, I figured I’d better tell you all at once. That way, everybody hears it and there aren’t any misunderstandings. But please bear with me. This has been the hardest day of my life, worse than any day I had in the Gulf.”
His audience had turned to stone, waiting.
Rob took a breath while Melanie rubbed his forearm. “Art Brunell has been arrested, and he is in custody at the new jail. I’m sad to say that Glenn Brunell died earlier today. Art took him fishing…and held his head under the water until he drowned. Those are the facts as they have been presented to me. Art drowned Glenn today. An eyewitness is claiming Art did it on purpose, with the intent to kill him.”
Angela heard Myles draw in a pained breath. She’d told him what she knew on the telephone, but Rob’s report was still shocking, stripped to its ugly facts.
Rob tried to go on, but the audience had erupted, drowning out his words. “That’sbull shit!” a tall, lavishly bearded man called hoarsely from the far side of the room. He must have captured the room’s sentiment, because their protests grew louder. Rob had to wait a long time for a lull. He stood patiently, allowing them to vent until the room went quiet again.
“Some of you know part of the story—and you know the age of the witness involved, so I understand why you have your doubts. But there have been other developments, people. Others have come forward.” The room quieted, waiting. Angela hadn’t heard about other developments. She’d spent the past two hours trying to help Liza’s mother keep Liza from screaming.
“There are two more witnesses. One is saying Art told her at the market this morning he was going to kill his son today. At the time, the witness thought it was a joke, but now she doesn’t. Another has told me Art took out a fifty-thousand-dollar life insurance policy on Glenn in Longview yesterday. Liza knew nothing about it—that’s what she says, and I believe her. But we’ve been presented with a copy of the policy.”
“That doesn’t meanshit!” the same bearded man shouted, his voice more hoarse than before.
“Rourke, I hate this more than you do,” Rob said. “I was at the house today. I saw Glenn’s body. I had to put handcuffs on Art. I know how you feel. But let me tell you, without disclosing too many details, Art was behaving very, very erratically. And I know there hasn’t been a trial yet—”
“Damn rightthere hasn’t been!” a woman yelled behind Angela, anger rasping her voice. Angela turned to look at her, and she recognized the stout woman as one of Art’s relatives, a cousin.
“I hear you, Sarah. I do. But I have to tell you straight, this thing looks real bad. Art is looking at the serious possibility of a prison sentence for this, even if it gets ruled an accidental drowning. And we can’t keep it out of the press. I see Myles here….”
Angela felt an ache of guilt as the audience turned to look at Myles, following Rob’s gaze. Now, the anger simmering in the room was directed toward them, the heat of more than a hundred pairs of eyes. Angela felt more like a stranger than she had in years.
“But we can’t blame Myles,” Rob said. “A TV station in Portland almost sent someone here tonight, except I stonewalled ’em so long. We all want to do what we can for Art and Liza, but there’s no such thing as keeping this quiet—it’s out. By this time tomorrow, the TV cameraswill be here. And maybe not just from Portland. Right, Myles?”
“Could be,” Myles said, his voice raw. “He’s the mayor, and unfortunately, there’s a child involved. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a network pick it up. It’s possible.”
There were new murmurs of anger and surprise. From the stage, Melanie mouthed the wordWhat? at Myles. She looked heartbroken that strangers would know their business.
“Well, Art always wanted the limelight, and he’s about to be in it,” Rob said, a grim joke, and a few people even laughed. “No matter how it all comes out in the end, we have friends who need prayer from us. Liza is…well, she’s not good. She’s at her parents’ place. If you’re a friend, don’t be afraid to go see her, but wait a day or two.” He paused, stuck momentarily on his thoughts of Liza. His pause forced Angela to freeze her own thoughts, because she could not allow herself to dwell on Liza. She knew something of how Liza felt tonight, and she’d never wish it on an enemy, never mind a friend. Liza hadn’t spoken a coherent word since her visit to Glenn’s room.
Rob was exhausted, obviously on the verge of tears himself. “We may never know what happened here, or why. My brain’s not making sense of it, and neither will yours, once you hear the whole story. Believe me when I say that. But all of us in this room—in our hearts—know Art Brunell did not want to kill that little boy. Art loved Glenn, and he’d sooner go to Hell itself than hurt his child. We know that about Art Brunell, because that’s the Art Brunellwe know.”
The audience murmured loudly, an amen corner. Angela and Myles murmured with them.
“I’m no minister like my dad and granddad, but let’s bow our heads a minute,” Rob said.
That minute lasted longer than five. No one in the room so much as coughed.
Angela wasn’t asleep when she heard the soft tapping on her hotel room door at twoA.M. , but she stared at the door a long time without moving, wondering if she was able to dream at last. “Angie?” a man’s voice whispered from beyond the door.
Angela jumped out of bed, startled. She checked herself in the mirror to see if she was decently clothed, and she was. She’d put on pajamas after her long bath instead of throwing on a T-shirt like she usually did, searching for a semblance of comfort. The silk soothed her skin. Candlelight in the room soothed her psyche and spirit. After the meeting, feeling unsettled and miserable, she’d bought two large white candles at the Triangle Mall; one burned on her nightstand, the other on the dresser, coloring the room in a flickering yellowish light. Gramma Marie had always burned candles at important times, when there were prayers to be made, or when her weakest parts needed to be made stronger. Her room now smelled of vanilla, another comfort.
Anything to help her forget that other smell, or at least to try.
When Angela opened the door, she found Myles there, leaning against the door frame. He’d loosened his shirt, and his tie wound across his shoulders. His eyes looked awful.
“You’re in luck,” she said. “I have a coffeemaker.”
“Bless you, lady,” he said. “But no caffeine. I need to sleep sometime tonight.”
“Herbal tea?”
“Perfect.”
Angela’s two cups of herbal tea before bed hadn’t been any help, and Myles probably wouldn’t fare much better, but she didn’t want to dash his hopes. Maybe sleep would come more easily to someone who hadn’t seen Glenn’s body dangling in Art’s arms.
Myles walked far across the room and collapsed into the armchair beside the striped curtains, drawn against the night sky. He stared straight ahead, not speaking, and his silence didn’t bother her. Angela was glad to have something to rescue her mind, even if it was just filling the coffeemaker’s carafe with water, plugging it in, turning it on. Watching her, Myles took a deep breath and sighed as if he were trying to cleanse his lungs. “I just got off the phone with Art’s mo
m,” he said.
“You called her this late?”
His sad eyes met hers. “No. I was at my office, and she called me. She wanted me to hold off printing the story about Art’s arrest. I had to tell her I couldn’t do that.”
“I know,” Angela said, although she wished to God he had. She’d hoped he would.
“She thinks I’m angling for a big story. She called me a ‘slick, opportunistic asshole.’ ”
“Mrs. Brunell said that?”
“Right before she hung up. Her exact words. Art and I did a school newspaper project together senior year, and she invited me to dinner a few times. His mom was the first person who told me not to be afraid to go to New York for college. She said it would change my life, and she was right. Now I’m a slick, opportunistic asshole.”
Angela sat cross-legged on the floor, at Myles’s feet. “Don’t take it personally, Myles. Mothers are fierce when it comes to protecting their young. I know—I used to be one.”
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