by Lisa Jackson
Jase unlocked the door and threw it open. “What the hell, Pres. Do you know what time it is? My neighbors—” His gaze slid from his seething brother, jaw set in anger, to the man who stumbled to keep his balance beside him.
Edward Bridges, his weathered face more lined than Jase remembered, swayed slightly. A cigarette dangled from his lips as he blinked against the harshness of the porch light.
“Dad?” Hell, what now?
“Hey, son,” Ed said, his greeting lopsided, his mouth barely moving as he clamped hard on his Camel straight. He reeked of booze and smoke, and swayed a little as he stood, his condition far past tipsy.
“What the hell is going on?” Jase asked, his gaze moving to his brother.
Prescott’s scowl deepened. “Yeah, that’s what I’d like to know. He just showed up at my door an hour ago and Lena hit the roof.”
“I bet.”
“Drove himself, if you can believe it. Parked his stupid truck almost on the front porch. Really lucky in his condition that he didn’t wreck and kill or maim someone! Damn it, Dad, what were you thinking?”
Edward didn’t react, just tried to squint through the smoke curling up from his cigarette.
Swiping his hair back in irritation, Prescott said to his brother, “So, are you gonna let us inside or what?”
“Yeah, Jase,” their father said unsteadily, slurring his words. “You gonna less in or what?” Then he chortled and the laughter turned into a coughing fit. He let the cigarette drop and crushed it out with boots that had seen better days.
Jase swung the door wide open, and Prescott clamped one hand on the old man’s arm and dragged him inside to the living area. “This has got to stop!” he said, letting their father fall onto the couch as Jase switched on one of the lamps. “Lena is beyond upset. Beyond upset! She doesn’t want the kids to see Dad like this.”
“Like wha’?” their father asked.
“Falling ass-down drunk, that’s what. Caleb might think you’re funny, but you’re not, and Trinity is at that age where she’s impressionable and—oh, hell, why am I even trying to explain? You won’t remember, you probably don’t care.” Prescott wasn’t in the mood to pull any punches. He was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt that was inside out, evidence that he, too, had been sleeping when Edward had landed on his doorstep. “This is not acceptable, Dad. Not acceptable.” To Jase, he added, “He needs treatment. Now.”
Edward tried to struggle to his feet, failed, and sat back down. Hard. “I ain’t goin’ to any of those rehab places, and you two know it. I jes’ need a little cash to get me back on my feet.”
“Not happening!” Prescott crossed his arms over his chest. “But there’s the matter of money. Rehab isn’t cheap, and I’m tapped out with the new house and all.” He stared pointedly at Jase. “You’re up.”
“I thought I was buying you out.”
“The farm?” Ed blinked, the sodden wheels in his mind beginning to turn. “You buyin’ the farm?”
“We’re talking, that’s all,” Jase said to him. “Sit down, Prescott.”
“Hell, no. I’m not sitting down. Lena’s already beyond pissed. Wants to call the preacher for an intervention, but what then? How do we swing that? The church has got some sort of program, but—”
“I ain’t goin’ to no fancy-pants holier-than-thou church camp. It ain’t my style.”
“Not camp, Dad,” Prescott reminded him. “Treatment. It has nothing to do with style, but everything to do with addiction.”
“Sheeeit. I don’t need no treatment. I just need a little—”
“Cash. Yeah, I know. Jase knows. We all know.” Prescott threw up his hands. “God, do we all know. Dad, I’ve had it.” To Jase, he said, “Lena wants nothing to do with this. If we go with the church program, you and I have to sponsor him. Lena’s out.” He pointed to Jase. “We set it up. Get the preacher and his wife involved, and by the way, that’s going to kill Lena to have them know, but . . . whatever. If we do this, Jase, you and Dad set up some kind of payment program. Otherwise he’s your problem! Totally. I’m out!”
“Problem?” Edward pulled a face, chewed on that. His head wobbled, a frown pulling down the corners of his mouth. “I ain’t nobody’s problem, least of all you boys. And you know I don’t mean to trouble you boys, but I’m just a little short this month.”
Prescott shot Jase a look that said can-you-believe-this?
“You are a problem, Dad. For me. For Lena. For my kids. And for Jase here, who is stupid enough to send you money to feed your addiction.”
Ed waved his oldest son off. “I’m just talking about the rent money now.”
“Right.” Prescott skewered their father with a hate-filled glare.
“So what happened? Why are you here, Dad?” Jase asked. “I told you I was sending a check.”
“And I told you I’d pick it up.”
“You said maybe. Remember? And that doesn’t explain why you’d turn up at Prescott’s.”
Edward turned a bleary eye up at Jase standing above him. “Got a little turned around. You know, isss dark out there.”
There was no use arguing when the old man was in this state; Jase had learned that sorry fact long ago. “Maybe you should just sleep it off, Dad.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Ed agreed.
But Prescott was having none of it. “No way. He’s ‘slept it off’ too many times, and the problem never goes away; it just gets bigger.”
“I told you, I’m not a problem,” Ed demanded.
“Yeah, right, Dad.” Prescott walked to the fireplace, sat down on the hearth, and clasped his hands together, letting them drop between his knees. His breath came out in a groan as he tried to rein in his anger. “This is the end. I can’t have you showing up at my place, three sheets to the wind. Lena was still going ballistic when we left. Freaking out about the kids and their grandpa and all kinds of crap.” He set an angry scowl on his father. “This is it, Dad. As far as I’m concerned, treatment is your only option. If you don’t go with that, you stay the hell out of my life. And my wife’s life and my kids’ lives. That’s it.”
“And you?” Ed asked, twisting his neck to look at his younger son.
Jase couldn’t back down. “I have to be with Pres on this one, Dad.” His voice was a little less stern than Prescott’s. “You need help. End of story.”
“That’s right.” Prescott stood. “So you crash here tonight and sleep it off.” With a glance at Jase for confirmation, he added, “We’ll sort all this out in the morning.”
“Nothin’ to sort out,” Ed insisted.
But as Jase walked Prescott to the door, the old man was already stretching out on the couch.
“This isn’t over,” Pres said as he stepped outside. “Not by a long shot. I will not have him coming to my home and disrupting my family. And don’t give me any guff about him being family, too. This is not okay, Jase. And let’s face it, you and I, we have enough problems. I think I told you I ran into Brianna.”
“Yeah, I think you even suggested I look her up.”
“Well, that was a mistake. A weak moment. Crap, what was I thinking? That it was over?” He met his brother’s eyes. “It’ll never be over,” he added grimly, and Jase felt a river of cold guilt run through his soul. “The smartest thing to do is to avoid her.”
His brother was right, of course. But . . . “Too late for that. I might have a business thing going with her.”
“Damn!” Prescott let out a long breath. “Just remember that she’s a complication we don’t need. Especially now that Dad’s here. He’s a loose cannon, Jase. You never know what he might say, what he could do.” His jaw worked as he thought. “Use your head if you see her again. I thought everything was long past us, but I was wrong. The old man? He could mess up everything. Everything.” And then he was off, hurrying down the front veranda to the staircase.
“Great,” Jase said under his breath. “Perfect.”
He locked the door behind
his brother and walked back into the living room, stopping at a cupboard to pull out an old blanket and pillow. Dropping both onto the couch where his father was already snoring, he said, “Come on, Dad. Here ya go,” and tucked his old man in for the night, even pulling off Ed’s dusty cowboy boots, remnants of a more vital life lived long ago.
“Thanks, son,” the old man said without opening his eyes.
Jase clicked off the lights and heard, “I knew you was the one to keep. Seen it in your eyes.”
What? Jase turned and was about to say something when he heard Ed sawing logs again, his snoring ripping through the apartment. Whatever the old man had muttered, it was probably all muddled anyway. Nothing but the rantings of a wasted drunk. But still, it bothered him.
As Jase lay on his bed, hands stacked under his head, he stared up at the ceiling and wondered about the secrets the old man kept. There was the big one, of course, the one that bound the Bridges men together forever, but were there others?
Of course.
Everyone had secrets; he had only to look inward, at his own skeletons, to know how dark and vile they could be.
So what were Ed Bridges’s secrets?
I knew you was the one to keep.
Meaning what?
CHAPTER 22
Brianna awoke to the pressure of cat paws on her chest and the sound of her cell phone ringing as it skittered across the top of her nightstand. Opening a bleary eye, she found St. Ives standing over her, his nose inches from hers, his green eyes staring.
“Morning,” she whispered groggily as she reached for the phone. Of course, it was Tanisha. “Hold on a sec,” she said to the cat. “I’m sure there’s some major drama that needs to be straightened out.” She yanked the phone from its charger and placed it against her ear. The digital readout on her clock read 7:15. Her first client of the day, the only one this morning, was scheduled for nine. Plenty of time to get ready.
But she could have used a little more sleep.
“Hello?” she said.
“Morning. Sorry to call so early.”
“It’s later than the last time.” As St. Ives hopped off the bed, Brianna threw off the covers, then crossed the room and drew back the curtain on the French door. She pushed it open a sliver in order to let the cat out. “What’s up?” She hoped it was more important than a nightmare.
“Have you heard from Enrique?”
St. Ives trotted through the open doorway to the sun-dappled garden. Shadows shifted across the flagstones and a squirrel in a high branch scolded.
“Enrique?” Brianna said around a yawn. “No, why?”
“He called me last night and you know he’s got a temper.”
That much was true. “And he called you, why?” Slowly the cobwebs in her mind were disappearing. She made her way to the kitchen.
“He was really upset about Selma’s daughters. Well, everyone was, I think, except maybe Desmond or Milo. Geez, those guys are made of stone. And if Roger had been there, he’d be the same. Trust me, that guy’s a piece of work. But then they all are, aren’t they? Men!”
Even in her blurry state, Brianna could envision Tanisha pursing her lips and shaking her head.
“So you were talking about Enrique?” In the kitchen, Brianna opened a cupboard, saw that the canister of ground coffee was about empty, and found a half-full bag of beans.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m tellin’ you, this really got to him, y’ know. Probably because of not ever really knowing what happened to Juan. The disappearance thing really bothers him.”
“I think it’s getting to all of us.”
“Good point. I know that’s what my dream was all about the night before. Anyway,” Tanisha continued as Brianna filled the coffee grinder with fragrant French Roast beans, “Enrique, he called me last night, after I got Selma home, and the guy’s all like Dog the Bounty Hunter rogue, wanting to get together some of the group and do the vigilante thing. You know, find this guy himself.”
“With guns drawn, I suppose.”
“He’s into that.”
Several of the group were. Desmond had admitted he possessed a concealed weapons permit, Roger was big into the NRA, and Milo dressed in camouflage from head to toe. They all were quiet types, who listened more than shared, and Brianna had suspected that, if they didn’t open up to the group one of these days, they would probably drop out. More than once she had wondered about those three. She had caught Milo looking at her when he didn’t think she could see him. She had seen Roger grow red in the face at something Tanisha had said about women not needing a man. She thought that, if prodded, Roger might explode like a pimple under the skin. As for Desmond, she suspected that he’d been in or was currently in some kind of emotionally abusive relationship. Similar to Elise, who seemed to cower at the mention of her ghost of a domineering boyfriend, Ashton. The signs of victimization were there.
“Give me a sec,” she said to Tanisha, then pushed the button on the coffee grinder. It screamed for half a minute as the blades whirled and chewed up the whole beans.
“Holy shit! What’s that?”
“My next pot of coffee. I grind my own, you know.”
“And wake the whole damned neighborhood in the process. You about blew out my eardrum, girl!”
“Never the one for melodrama,” Brianna teased.
Tanisha chuckled.
“How was Selma after she left the restaurant?”
“The same, but kind of disappointed, you know. I think she half-expected the girls to be there at the house. But they weren’t, and their car was still parked where they’d left it.”
Brianna was not surprised by that.
“I figured Enrique would have phoned you.”
“He knows how I feel about any kind of violence.”
“Yeah, but he knows how you feel about finding Selma’s twins. Huh. And get this, I got another call, too. From Elise. Can you believe that?”
“It is a support group.”
“I know, but I haven’t exactly been quiet about what I think about that loser of a boyfriend she has. Ashton. Humph.”
Tanisha was rarely quiet about anything; she put her opinions out there. And when it came to men who lacked respect for women, she did not hold back. A result of her horrid track record with boyfriends. “But she called,” Brianna prodded, filling the coffeepot from the tap, then pouring water into the coffeemaker’s reservoir.
“Yeah, yeah. Worried, you know. Wanted to help.”
“Why didn’t she call me or Selma?”
“I don’t think she wanted to be too nosy or have Selma think she was intruding. You know, give Selma her space.”
“Okay. And me?”
“I think she finds you intimidating.”
“Me?” Brianna turned on the coffeemaker as St. Ives returned and threaded his way in figure eights between her legs. “What about you?”
“Hey! I’m a friend to all women! Besides, I think she wanted to tell me how sweet Ashton was being, which made my bullshit meter soar into the red zone. But I let it pass. Bigger fish to fry, y’know. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Selma yet?”
“Today?” As the coffeepot filled and gurgled, Brianna glanced at the clock on the microwave. Not even eight. “Not yet. It’s still early. She e-mailed me late last night. I’ll give her a couple of hours, in case she’s sleeping.”
“Trust me, she ain’t gonna sleep. Look, I gotta run if I’m going to get to work on time. I’ll talk to ya later!” Tanisha clicked off before Brianna could say good-bye.
Bentz’s eyes were gritty from lack of sleep and, so far, no amount of coffee could shake the headache that was beginning to pound behind his eyes. He’d been at his desk in the department since seven and had been vaguely aware of the change of shift, the voices, occasional bursts of laughter and footsteps over the ever-present hum of the air conditioner that, this time of year, worked overtime.
He rubbed his jaw and noticed it wasn’t quite ten. In the three hours he’d bee
n at work, he’d already popped four ibuprofen, a handful of Tums, and even downed a bottle of water. Breakfast had been a Snickers bar from a vending machine. He guessed he wouldn’t tell Olivia, as she was always getting on him about his eating habits, exercise, and, oh, yeah, the job. That was beginning to be a serious topic of discussion, one he couldn’t argue with her; he barely saw Baby Ginny and she was growing fast. Their baby would be one before he knew it, and the years would start flying by. He’d seen that happen with Kristi, his grown daughter, whom he’d raised, for the most part, as a single parent.
He stretched in his desk chair and stifled a yawn. Last night, he hadn’t slept much, the argument with Olivia simmering along with his worries about work. Fear that two of the worst criminals he’d ever had to chase down, Father John, the murdering wannabe priest, and 21, the psycho who killed women on their twenty-first birthdays, had bothered him. Women, he reminded himself. The 21 Killer targeted women. Not men.
Or at least so he’d thought.
Yesterday, he’d left messages with the Phoenix and Dallas police, hoping to get further information about the missing twins whom Brianna Hayward had mentioned. He’d spent nearly forty minutes on the phone discussing the case with Detective Crenshaw from Dallas, who didn’t buy into his missing twins as being victims of the 21 Killer. As ever, the response had been, “LA got that son of a bitch and he’s serving time. And even a copycat wouldn’t be interested in a male. Right?” Crenshaw had asked in a heavy Texas drawl. “What I’ve got here is fraternal twins, one female, the other male, and that’s not 21’s gig.”
“Until now.”
“Yeah, well, I talked to someone about this, a concerned citizen or some such crap, and she . . . let’s see, where’s the note . . . ?” A pause as he either shuffled papers or checked his computer. “Yeah, all right. Here it is. A Ms. Hayward, from your neck of the bayou.” Crenshaw had chuckled at his own joke. “She was tryin’ like hell to string some kind of theory together that ol’ 21, he was at it again, and that the guy in prison, who’s her cousin, by the way—I checked—is innocent.” He snorted. “That what this is all about? She knockin’ on your door now?”