Dying Truth

by Jay Nadal

  “Then why the hell aren’t you in there with her?” Cade roared, swatting the cigarette the skinny youth was about to put into his mouth. Cade had him by the front of his overalls, twisting the material until it pulled the collar tight around the boy’s throat.

  “Hey, buddy. We just work here. Think we want trouble with the Dexters?” the older man said. “They tell us to make like a tree, so we do. You get it?.”

  Cade hurled aside the skinny one and reached for something in the back of his truck. Then he vaulted the railing that separated the sidewalk from the parking lot. The guard twenty yards away straightened from the SUV. Cade never took his eyes off the man as he strode toward him. As the gap closed, the man spoke. He had tight-gelled, slicked-back hair and a bolo tie over his white shirt.

  “Hey, cowboy. Does this make you feel at home, huh?” He held out the tie.

  Cade let the tire iron slip down the sleeve of his jacket where it had been concealed and hit the man in the stomach with it. Air rushed from him, and he doubled over. Cade snatched a handful of brittle hair and pulled his head back. He smashed his fist into the man’s jaw. The heavy went limp. Dropping the tire iron, Cade pushed the man’s jacket aside and found the piece he had tucked into the waistband of his pants. He took it and moved to the small door that led into the auto shop.

  It opened as Cade reached it. He kicked out, slamming it shut as a man ducked through. The wooden door cracked against his head, producing a cry of pain. Cade pulled the door wide, affording himself a brief view into the auto shop until he ducked to one side. There was a big man on his back, clutching his head. It looked like Dom, the verbose thug who Cade had met two days before. There was only one other that he could see in the shop. Apart from Beth. She was on the floor, hair hanging over her face and blood dripping from her mouth.

  Cade surged blind with rage. A man stood over her, reaching for her. He held a looped belt in his hands. He turned with a startled look on his face at the interruption. Cade didn’t recognize him—another goon in a suit, a gangster wannabe with a backwoods haircut. No sign of a gun, and his hands had been full. Cade let go. He stepped through the door, gun held ready and pointed at the man as he was about to whip Beth. Without looking, Cade lashed out with one foot and caught Dom between his legs. He pulled his leg back and stamped down with his full weight in the same spot before swiftly disarming the big man, sending him into a world of pain.

  The other hood licked his lips as Cade came toward him. He seemed to think about whether it would be better to pull his own gun or surrender. His hesitation cost him. Cade fired once above his head to make him duck, then closed the gap and pistol-whipped him to the side of his face. Something crunched under the blow, and he dropped like a stone. Cade grabbed him by his shirt and lifted his upper body off the floor, then slammed the butt of the pistol into his mouth. Again. And again. Beth screamed his name as Cade forced the gun into the bloody, broken mouth and clicked back the hammer.

  He stared balefully into frightened wide eyes. A dark patch appeared in the hood’s pants. Cade breathed hard between bared teeth before he realized he had been screaming, too. He had been roaring like a caged animal. He didn’t even know for how long. Since he had stepped into the auto shop? Since he had emasculated Dom? Beth wanted to reach for him but seemed afraid to lay a hand on him. She thinks I will kill him if she touches me. Thinks I’m a hair trigger. I am.

  “Who else,” Cade grated. He pulled back the gun until it was just between the man’s lips.

  “Just us,” came the muffled reply. “Please…”

  The gun went back in, breaking off a tooth as it went.

  “You do that to her?”

  Frantic shaking of the head. Eyes went to Dom.

  “Don’t believe you.”

  A terrified scream, gagged by the presence of the gun.

  “Going to just kill you.”

  Eyes rolled up to whites, and he fainted. Cade let him go, disgusted, and threw the gun aside. He turned to Beth, who shrank away from him for a brief moment. He raised his hands, palms out.

  “It’s okay. It’s still me.”

  Beth crawled to him and hugged him tight. She sobbed against his chest, then pulled back.

  “I’m okay. They came in and that one hit me in the face. Knocked me off my feet. They said they would whip me like a dog. To teach me a lesson. Told me not to open up again until they said I could. I don’t get it. I thought they wanted money. How can we pay them anything if the business goes under? I don’t know what they want.”

  Cade helped her to her feet. She kicked the unconscious man hard in his kidneys and spat. “It’s like it’s all some kind of sick game to them.”

  “It ain’t a game. They’re after something. If they put you out of business, they can take over. It’s happened before.”

  “I’m going to kick the ass of those two cowards out there. They just ran.”

  “Don’t waste your time. We need to get out of here. All three of us. You, me, and Maddie.”

  Beth looked at him like he was crazy. “And just leave Brandon?”

  “No. There must be places we can go where you can still get to the hospital but the Dexters can’t get to you? A motel is better’n nothing.”

  “No way. I will not let those animals chase me out of my home. And I’m not putting Maddie through that. We’re staying put.”

  13

  The Dexter house rose above East Burford like a medieval fortress. It occupied a terrace carved into a promontory that jutted from the eastern side of the Grey Valley. A single-lane road wound up to that height, known locally as Mount Dexter. It was gray and square, only two stories. A window peeked out of the shingled roof at each side, giving it the impression of small observation points strategically located to look out in all directions. A larger front porch held an ancient leather armchair, against which propped an oiled, modern hunting rifle.

  Two large Dobermans lay on the porch, taking little interest in anything around them, unless the occupant of the armchair made to stand. At that, their heads rose and ears pricked. Billy Dexter watched the car crunch along the red ash driveway to stop before the house. He hadn’t been called Billy for some years. Everyone called him Pa, those who could address him at all.

  He was in his late sixties, with a solid head of iron-gray hair. His eyes seemed to slant as though he had Southeast Asian ancestry somewhere in his genes. His lips offered a slight kink to show a sardonic smirk. Despite his age, his skin was free of lines and stretched taut.

  Jimmy Dexter got out of the passenger seat and strode to the porch steps. Pa Dexter sat forward as Mike Kelly got out of one of the rear doors. Blood stained the front of his shirt, and his mouth was a red ruin. Grant Cooper got out of the opposite door wearing his ridiculous bolo tie. The dogs gave whines of alertness. Pa Dexter reached out with the rifle, holding it out across the top of the steps in a barring motion. Jimmy stopped with his foot on the first step.

  “Why is Michael here covered in blood?” Pa Dexter asked quietly.

  Jimmy didn’t look but kept his eyes on his father. “Someone jumped the guys down at Collins Autos,” he said.

  “Jumped. Three guys. How many were there? Five, six, ten?”

  “Just one, Pa.”

  “One.” Pa Dexter’s voice had yet to reveal any inflection. It was unclear from his tone what his opinions were on the mismatched odds. Jimmy stayed frozen to the spot. He didn’t reply.

  “This one guy—this would be the Texan guy I’ve heard about, correct?” His gray eyes bored into Jimmy’s.

  “Yes, Pa.”

  “Should have killed that son of a bitch when we had the chance. Knew he was trouble first time I saw him,” Bobby shouted as he walked out of the house onto the porch.

  “Bobby. Get the fuck back in the house, and do not speak unless I tell you to,” Pa Dexter rapped in a clipped tone. Bobby stood, mouth open. He looked at his brother. Jimmy shook his head imperceptibly.

  “Robert. Did I not just
tell you to get the fuck inside, and yet you’re still standing there. Don’t look at your brother.”

  “Pa, I’ve seen this guy around. I can—”

  Pa Dexter was out of his chair with the speed of a striking rattler. The butt of the rifle caught Bobby in the stomach, and an openhanded slap caught him against his right ear. Pa Dexter grabbed the front of the stained T-shirt Bobby wore and slammed him against the wall. Bobby cowered back, raising his hands.

  “Put your hands down, you coward. You’re a Dexter. Put ’em down,” Pa Dexter ordered.

  As Bobby lowered his hands, Pa Dexter lashed out with a right hook that took Bobby across the jaw. His head bounced off the wall, and Bobby dropped. He looked up through disheveled hair with wide, scared eyes.

  Pa Dexter’s voice remained steady. “Now, you piece of chicken shit. I told you to get back inside.”

  Bobby scrambled away.

  “That boy is a constant disappointment,” Pa Dexter addressed everyone. “But you, Jimmy, are not so far behind these days. How ’bout I ask you to kill your brother?”

  Jimmy hung his head, not answering.

  “One day. When I’ve had enough of both of you, I’ll do that. And I’ll be the one to kill you.”

  The basilisk stare turned back to Mike Kelly. “Say something, Mike.”

  “We were turning the screws on the girl like you said, and he showed up.” Every word seemed agonized, but Pa Dexter watched with an unblinking stare that seemed to drag words from him. “He took us by surprise. Didn’t even see him until he stepped into the garage.”

  “Uh-huh. Jimmy, I could have been the owner of the place by now. She’s all alone, has a kid, feeling vulnerable. Instead, you let our boys take an ass kicking. Jimmy, come here.”

  As he spoke, the rifle in his hands inched higher as he aimed at Jimmy. But Jimmy Dexter didn’t look at the gun. His dark eyes never left his father’s stare. He climbed the remaining steps and stood in front of his father. Pa Dexter slapped a hand around the back of Jimmy’s neck, forcing his head down.

  “I swear to God, Jimmy. I swear to God.” Pa Dexter’s forehead touched his son’s, and then the butt of the rifle flashed into Jimmy’s stomach.

  He dropped to one knee without a sound. When he looked up, there was murder in his eyes. His voice wavered in controlled fury.

  “You want to know what I’m doing about it, Pa?”

  Pa Dexter sat down. A woman came out of the house. She had short, dyed-blonde hair, elaborately styled and curled, sky-blue eyes, and cheeks that still held dimples when she smiled. She wore too much makeup and a tight skirt. She carried a tray with a pitcher and a glass on it and set it down on a small table next to Pa Dexter’s right hand.

  “Hey, Jimmy. Hope you’ve been behaving,” she said brightly, a trace of South Carolina still clinging to her accent.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” Pa Dexter said, picking up the glass and taking two large swallows. “You make the best lemonade I ever tasted. Now, go back inside. We’ve got business to discuss.”

  “Sure. But Jimmy, I expect you to come and see me before you go. You don’t come up here often enough.” She bustled back into the house.

  “Okay, Jimmy. You’re my number one guy. My field general. Tell me your strategy.” He reached down to idly scratch the ears of one of the dogs, and the other jostled for attention.

  “We need to know what we’re dealing with here. So I had French ask Chief Joseph to gather some intel for us.” Jimmy regained control of himself, the anger leaving his voice. “Who he is, what he’s doing here? Then we can deal with him.”

  “And what about this embarrassment you’ve had today? This humiliation. What are you going to do about it?”

  Jimmy smiled. “Press charges.”

  Pa looked at him. Then a reptilian smile oozed across his face. “I like it.”

  “French is on his way over. He’ll go with Michael, Dom, and Grant to the Burford Police and press assault charges. Chief Joseph will make sure Cade gets charged this time. After what he did to Mike, any bail will be well beyond what Beth Collins can raise.”

  The butt of the rifle thudded to the decking of the porch. Pa Dexter took another satisfied sip of lemonade.

  “Send your boys to the kitchen. Your mother will give them some lemonade. Get a chair.”

  Jimmy made a gesture. Mike and Grant muttered their heartfelt thanks as they hurried around the house to the kitchen door.

  “Where’s Dom?” Pa Dexter asked.

  “Indisposed,” Jimmy told him as he pulled a canvas camping chair over to sit across the table from his father.

  “How bad?”

  “He may never have kids,” Jimmy replied without a trace of humor.

  Pa Dexter laughed. “I don’t want to know. Now, with this asshole behind bars, it’s a good time to put the pressure on Beth Collins.”

  Jimmy nodded.

  “I’m leaving this to you, Jimmy. I have a meeting with Janger and don’t want to be bothered with these kinds of details. Deal with it for me. Okay, Jimmy?”

  “Okay. You can leave it to me, Pa.”

  “I hope so, Jimmy. This kind of deal is once in a lifetime, and I’ve been building this for years. I will put a bullet in your head rather than see it go down the drain.”

  14

  Jimmy Dexter got out of his car. His place was an old farmhouse converted at someone’s great expense and had come to Jimmy cheaply. It was far enough off the I-93 to offer some privacy, but close enough for convenience. It had a long sloping roof that almost reached the ground at the back, making the house taller at the front. A screen of trees hid it from view until the final bend of the rutted track that connected it to the highway. Abandoned farm buildings lay between the house and the road, barns and sheds left to rust. Jimmy didn’t care about them.

  Mike negotiated the stony track back toward the highway. It was Jimmy’s car, but he rarely drove it himself and regularly entrusted it to his crew, on the understanding that vicious violence would reward careless driving. Jimmy knew that Bobby would have sneaked out of Pa’s house as soon as he could and headed for his brother’s house.

  He walked in across the bare floorboards to the kitchen, which ran the width of the house at the rear. The fridge was open. Bobby sat with his back to it, eating a sandwich. Jimmy kicked the door closed.

  “So, French tells me you’ve met this guy already. Wanna share something with me, Bobby?”

  Bobby shrugged. He was impulsive. That had always been his problem. It was the reason Pa despised him. Bobby couldn’t be trained like Jimmy had been, couldn’t be groomed for leadership. He was too unpredictable. Bobby didn’t look Jimmy in the eye. He never did.

  “Couple of nights ago. He attacked me. Can you believe it?”

  “French says this guy was saying you attacked him.”

  “Come on. Who do you believe?”

  “French, the lawyer who’s worked for this family for ten years.”

  “Not your own brother. Thanks.” Bobby rolled his eyes.

  Jimmy cuffed him around the head.

  “Hey!” Bobby yelled, jumping to his feet.

  Jimmy slugged him in the gut and hurled him to the ground.

  “Dumb bastard!” he hissed. His fist pulled back again, found flesh. “For once, drop the attitude. Just tell me what happened.”

  Bobby cowered again, on the verge of crying. Bobby’s attitude always pricked Jimmy, which resulted in violence. It seemed to be the only thing Bobby understood. Bobby was afraid of Pa. But Jimmy less so. Bobby appeared upset more than anything else when Jimmy laid into him. Betrayed. Jimmy supposed he could understand that. It had always been the Dexter boys against the world since they were kids. As he hauled Bobby up by his shirt and dropped him into a chair, he couldn’t help but see the scared little boy in Bobby’s pale face, except where Pa’s right hook had raised a purple bruise on his jaw.

  “Goddamn it, Bobby. Why do you have to get him so mad all the damn time.” Jimmy strai
ghtened his brother’s shirt and sat opposite him, tossing his leather jacket across the Formica table.

  “He hates everything I do, Jimmy. It’s like I was born to make him angry.”

  “Then don’t do it,” Jimmy retorted.

  “Think that hasn’t occurred to me? I try. Every day I try. I can’t help it. Something just comes out, and he’s beating on me. Been that way since we were kids. He used to beat me because I couldn’t stop drumming with my hands. You remember that?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Pa always thought I did it just to defy him. I didn’t.”

  “Whatever. That’s not our problem right now. Our problem is this guy. Pa wants to know who he is, and I find out you already got into a fight with him. So, are you going to tell me what happened, or am I just going to call Pa right now?”

  “Okay. Jeez, Jimmy. Chill, will ya?”

  Bobby cut off with a yell as Jimmy lashed out and slapped him on the side of the head. Bobby leapt to his feet, knocking back his chair and blindly lashing out at Jimmy, landing nothing.

  “Just leave me alone. I’m trying to tell you.”

  “Make it faster,” Jimmy snarled.

  “I was downtown and ran into him. I recognized him from the garage. It was that night, after we went to see Brandon Collins the first time. We got into a fight.”

  “You got into a fight,” Jimmy said flatly.

  Bobby’s voice got faster and higher. He knew the signs in his brother.

  “He came at me. I just defended myself.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Ask him, man. Why are you asking me?”

  “Because nothing with you is ever that simple, Bobby.”

  Bobby’s bravado appeared to leave him in a rush. His face sagged, and tears seemed close. He hugged himself. And Jimmy was right back there again.

  He tore at the doors of the storm cellar behind the house. They were heavy, and he was only thirteen. But he got one open and almost fell down the steps, letting the door slam closed behind him. It shut out the sounds of Pa giving Bobby another beating—the angry shouts, the heavy slap of the belt. He knew the feeling himself. Had done enough to earn his own share. But Bobby got more than his share.