Bad enough was the thought of some men having battered-woman-radar that led them to the front door of women like Lita. Even worse was the thought of women like Lita flagging them down, asking them in, passing out handmade invitations to have their lives ruined.
“Was my father really a doctor?” Charis wasn’t sure why she asked. Maybe because she knew Lita would be gone soon. This would be her last chance to hear the words that had for whatever reason, brought her comfort as a child.
Lita stood, wrapping her arms around her daughter. “Of course he was. Just like I told you before. That’s why you were drawn to nursing. Medicine is your calling. It’s in your blood.”
And then Charis saw him, just like she had as a little girl so many times before. Her father stood before her, his big strong hands, doctor’s hands, scooping her up, taking her away from the nightmare of filthy apartments, lecherous men and alcohol.
“How did you meet him?” Charis asked. The little girl inside her screamed and plugged her ears with her fingers, wanting to go on believing the beautiful lie, not wanting to know the truth.
Lita pulled back, looked at her. Charis gazed at the woman’s bloodshot eyes and wondered if the bulging red veins had appeared not from too little sleep, but from too much alcohol or worse, drugs. “Well… It’s a long story,” she said, running a hand through thick layers of salt and pepper hair. “I’ll tell you one day when we have more time. It’s getting late.”
Lita had made the whole thing up. Of course, Charis had known that all along…hadn’t she? She was thirty years old, for heaven’s sake. Surely some part of her brain didn’t believe the fairy tale, hadn’t clung naively to the hope that her father was some kind of doctor-superhero hybrid. An omnipresent guardian, ever ready to snatch her from the jaws of danger.
“By the way, did I mention I’m getting my own place?” Lita asked, her voice bright.
“What? Already? How will you afford it?”
“I’ve been saving. Everything should be squared away in about a week. I appreciate you helping me get back on my feet, baby doll. The last six years of my life were pure hell. I missed you so much.” She pecked Charis’s cheek and brushed past her. “Goodnight.”
Charis sank into her mother’s empty chair and opened the laptop. She scrolled down, reading the messages between Lita and a “Local Hot Single.” A twenty-five year old shirtless man by the name of Kenny.
Charis slammed the laptop and went to bed, clothes and all. Alone in the dark she cried like a frightened child over a lost mother and a nameless father. But most of all, she cried over the unknown fate of Deason McKindle.
Chapter Six
Deason stepped into the small cell, heart falling to his jail-issued rubber shoes as Deputy Evans slammed the cage shut. “That’s Jimmy,” the deputy said, nodding toward the corner. He fastened his keys to his belt before walking away.
Deason assessed the small room, his gaze resting on a scratched set of metal bunk beds. A man glared at him from the bottom mattress. “What are you looking at?” Jimmy demanded.
Ignoring him, Deason pulled onto the top bunk, rolled to his back and gazed at the grimy concrete ceiling.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Jimmy barked. “No way I’m dumb enough to sleep below a murderer. Risk being pounced on in the night.” He banged his fist against the bottom of Deason’s bunk. “Get off my bed.”
Deason leaned over the side. One of Jimmy’s eyes burned with anger while the other—coated with a whitish film—stared off another direction.
“If this is your bed, why are you sitting on mine?” Deason asked.
“I’ll sit anywhere I damn well please, murderer.”
Deason wondered how word had spread so fast in jail. He’d just found out himself that he’d been labeled a murderer.
“You killed my buddy, Vic. I’ve got my eye on you.”
“Which one?” Deason asked, hopping easily from the bunk, landing in front of the man. He peered questioningly into one eye then the other.
Jimmy’s face reddened, not from embarrassment, Deason assumed. “I’ll get you, boy,” he growled. “You won’t have to wait long, neither. It’ll be real soon.”
“Scram,” Deason said, jerking the thin mattress, forcing him off. “You’re on my bed.”
Grunting, Jimmy hoisted himself up and thudded heavily onto the top bunk.
Deason shook out the rumpled sheet, snapped it through the air twice before tucking it back onto the bed.
“’Fraid you’ll catch something from me, murderer?”
“Last I checked, ugly wasn’t contagious but a man can’t be too careful.” Deason reclined on the bed, lip twitching as Jimmy threw punches into the top bunk’s thin mattress, his fists clunking against the metal beneath.
Deputy Evans unlocked the cell. “McKindle. You missed six o’clock supper. Sheriff’s feeling generous.” He held a plastic tray in Deason’s direction.
Deason rolled from the bunk, stepped to the cell door and took his dinner—something that resembled Hamburger Helper, a cluster of colorless grapes trapped in green gelatin and a plastic mug of water.
“Thank you.” Deason returned to the bed, sat on the edge.
The cell slammed shut. Deason stared at the imprisoned grapes, trying to make sense of his situation. He mulled over what he could’ve done differently, and what exactly he’d done wrong.
He could’ve let Vic continue to beat the living daylight out of Charis that Tuesday morning, two and a half weeks ago…god, it seemed like years. Instead of going to the police, he supposed he could’ve gone ahead and dumped Vic’s decomposing body into his trash truck, carted it to the refuse yard, and let the pickers stumble across it with their flashlights and trash-nabbing tools.
Same with the wallet. He shouldn’t have shaken the discarded DVD player box that morning. Then he’d never have known the wallet was inside.
“Better eat. Tastes worse cold,” Jimmy said, pulling Deason from his thoughts.
“You’re welcome to it.” Deason raised the tray above his head, level with the top bunk. It jarred roughly from his palm and catapulted through the air, raining globs of macaroni casserole and Jell-O salad onto the cell floor before clanging against the steel bars.
“I’d starve to death before I’d take anything from you, murderer.”
Deason pounced, climbed onto the top bunk, his feet never touching the floor. Jimmy’s throat pulsed under his grip as he pulled him forward, nose to nose, gaze boring into his good pupil while the other eye, colorless as a congealed grape sliding down the cell wall, wandered.
“You listen to me. I didn’t kill Vic Locke. But I’m not above saying the worthless piece of shit deserved it. And that’s the last time you’ll call me a murderer.”
Jimmy’s good eye bulged from his purplish face, the other gazing around the room, as if to look for help. He nodded adamantly, clawing at Deason’s fingers.
“What’s going on here?” A fresh-faced deputy yelled, rattling a key into the lock.
“Just had a little spill,” Deason answered, giving Jimmy’s throat an extra squeeze before letting go and jumping to the floor.
Jimmy gasped hoarsely, his purple cheeks fading back to pasty white.
“Why the hell were both of you up there?”
“I gave Jimmy my tray. He choked—talking with his damn mouth full. I had to climb up and give him the Heimlich.”
The deputy stepped slowly to the bed, avoiding the slop on the floor. “That so, Jimmy?”
Deason held his breath, knowing if Jimmy told the truth about the scuffle, it would be brought up at the arraignment. Then he could kiss his chance for bail goodbye. Held on a murder complaint with a previous record, he was already at the judge’s mercy.
Jimmy nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. I feel like a damn fool, but that’s how it happened. Flapping my jaws, choked on a grape, toppled the tray.”
The young deputy gave a long glance to Jimmy, and then Deason. “I’ll get the mop. Then both
of you can clean up this mess.” He walked out, locking the cell behind him.
Jimmy’s stare tingled on the back of Deason’s neck. “You expecting a thank you?” Deason asked.
“It’s you that ought to be expecting something. I ain’t about to get you tossed out of this cell ’til you get what’s coming.”
Deason clenched his teeth. Round two. He should’ve known Jimmy’d backed down too easy. No way would he let this Jackass blow his chance for bail. He’d have to keep his guard up.
The deputy returned with a mop and rolling bucket. “Have at it.” He leaned the mop handle against the wall. “Pick up the big chunks first,” he said, exiting the cell.
Deason picked up the tray then knelt, scooping the slop with one hand, slinging it into the food smeared tray.
“That’s right trash man, show us what you’re made of,” Jimmy jeered from the top bunk.
“You too, Connors,” the deputy barked through the bars. Jimmy climbed down and grabbed the mop, jabbing it repeatedly into the bucket, sloshing water. He mopped around Deason, close as possible without making contact.
When they’d finished, the deputy balanced the tray on the mop-bucket and rolled it from the cell. “Half hour until bed,” he said, slamming the cell door.
Deason bided his time, waiting for Jimmy’s shallow pant to become steady breathing. No way would he doze off before that psycho did.
He steered his tired mind from sleep, occupying it with images of Charis Locke. Blond hair up, knotted loosely on top, and then tumbling down, swinging around her shoulders and face. Hospital scrubs hugging her shapely behind in a way that could prove fatal to a weak heart. Eyes, big and blue as the Montana sky, gazing at him from beneath long lashes. And lips, plump as a ripe strawberry and every bit as sweet. He felt her kiss again, heat surging his body. He shifted on his cot, quietly clearing his throat.
For the first time, he brought her along for the ride as his mind wandered to Montana, picturing her on top of a Glacier Park mountain, cheeks rosy from the cold, laughter turning to white wisps in the crisp air. A cabin nearby with an extra room for Mr. Barnaby, a fenced yard for Kink, and everything they’d need in a small town just down the mountain. He relaxed, a smile on his lips as he drifted off.
A loud squeak yanked him from sleep, snapping his eyelids open. He jerked, banging his head against the steel bunk overhead.
“Watch your head,” Jimmy whispered, hanging upside down from the top bunk, stinking breath hot on Deason’s cheek.
Deason reeled, white-hot fireworks exploding behind his right eye. He closed it tight, cupping it, blood dripping through his fingers. With the other hand, he grabbed Jimmy’s fist, squeezing until the knuckles cracked, shaking the sharp object from his grip. Jimmy repeatedly thumped Deason’s temple with his free hand. A small pencil, the type used on golf scorecards, dropped and rolled to the wall.
“Won’t be making fun of my eye anymore, will you? Got a jacked-up eye of your own now,” Jimmy cackled, upside down, fist still in Deason’s grip.
Jerking his bloody hand from his eye, Deason snatched Jimmy’s arm just above the elbow and yanked hard, pulling him over the top bunk, crashing him to the floor.
“You broke my tailbone,” Jimmy howled, rubbing his ass with both hands.
Quick footfalls echoed in the hallway. “Don’t move,” Deputy Evans shouted. One hand on his gun, he unlocked the cell and stepped cautiously in.
Jimmy held both hands in the air. “SOB attacked me. Pulled me right off the bunk.”
The young deputy, who’d toted the mop earlier, sprinted into the cell, gun drawn. “Hands up, McKindle,” he yelled, voice and weapon shaking.
Deason, still seated on the bottom bunk, raised his hands. Blood dripped from his chin to his thigh, dotting the white stripes, disappearing into the black.
“What the hell happened to your eye?” The gunslinger asked.
“Cockeye down there on the floor jabbed a pencil through it.” Deason jerked his head toward the east wall.
The younger deputy kept his trembling gun on Deason while Evans picked up the pencil by the butt-end, holding it as if it was a scorpion. He placed it into his shirt pocket.
“Jimmy here’s a real man. Not afraid to assault a fella in his sleep. So brave, he squeezed a pencil between his knuckles and punched me right in the eye socket.”
“Quiet, McKindle,” Deputy Evans warned.
Jimmy sucked in short snorts of breath, blowing them back out through his nose. The sound reminded Deason of the buffalo he’d seen at Medicine Park’s wildlife refuge. He didn’t need to see Jimmy’s face to know he was pissed. A few more insults and he just might explode. Deason counted on it.
“Yeah, old Jimmy’s almost as bold as his worthless drinking buddy was—and twice as ugly.”
That did it. Jimmy bounded to his feet, fists wind milling.
“Freeze!” the young deputy shouted at Jimmy, swinging his gun so unsteadily, he could’ve been playing a game of paddleball.
Jimmy, ignoring the command, punched wildly, landing a wallop on Deason’s chin.
Deputy Evans pushed the younger deputy to the side. “Holster that thing before he takes it away and uses it on you,” he spat, wrestling Jimmy back to the floor, grinding a knee into his back as he cuffed him.
“Murdering son of a bitch killed Vic,” Jimmy sniveled, tears trickling from his good eye.
“Move out of the way,” Evans shouted to his partner, jerking Jimmy to his feet, walking him toward the door. “Cuff McKindle and get him to the infirmary.”
****
Charis stirred her morning coffee, her mind a swirling whirlpool like the liquid in her cup.
“Hey, snap out of it,” Daphne ordered, slapping her palm on the table. “Don’t you zone out on me, girl. We’ve got major thinking to do.”
Charis blinked then raised her gaze to Daphne’s. “I don’t know where to start. You’ve got to admit, the way Deason stumbled across Vic’s body and wallet…”
Daphne crossed her thick arms on the tabletop and leaned forward. “You’re not buying into that crap are you? This is murder we’re talking about. Tell me you don’t suspect the very man who saved you from a vicious beating.”
Charis’s gaze returned to her coffee cup.
“Come on, Charis. You know as well as I do—better than I do—Vic Locke had it coming. He deserved to land in that dumpster. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”
“That’s harsh, Daph. Even for you.”
Daphne shrugged. “Assholes to ashes, I always say.”
Charis pushed her cup away then raked her hands through her hair, absently smoothing it into a ponytail as she spoke. “I don’t really suspect Deason. At least I’m trying very hard not to. But if not Deason, then who?”
“Yeah. Narrowing it down will be tough—half the town hated Vic’s guts,” Daphne said. “What about one of Vic’s drinking buddies? Think one of them got fed up with his mouth and eighty-sixed his ass then tried to blame Deason? You can bet everybody at Suds knew all about the fight in Mr. B’s yard. The person that killed him could’ve planted Vic’s body and the wallet.”
“But how could they’ve know Deason would be the one to empty Suds’ dumpster that day?”
“The same way that I know Deason picks up trash in that alley on Thursday afternoons—they saw him emptying Suds’ trash. God, Charis. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out trash routes run on a schedule.”
“Okay, you’re right,” Charis sighed. “But what about the phone calls? Deason said there were phone records proving he accepted calls from Vic’s number. What’s your answer for that, All-Knowing One?”
“Pssh, that’s easy. Deason’s slut of an ex-wife was getting it on with Vic. The two of them thought it’d be funny to mess with Deason’s head by making prank phone calls.”
Charis dropped her hands in mid-smooth, hair falling over her shoulders. “Vic and Gabriella were having an affair? Oh my god, why didn’t you tell me?�
��
Daphne picked at her coral thumbnail. “It’s just a theory.” She raised her gaze to Charis’s “But a damn good one, right?”
Charis had to admit, it was.
“Come here, Kink,” Daphne called as Deason’s dog peeked around the corner into Charis’s kitchen. “Give me some love before I go.” She slid a sugar cookie from the saucer in the center of the table and held it toward the floor, ignoring Charis’s disapproving glance. Kinko clicked across the tile, gingerly took the treat from Daphne’s fingers then skittered away.
“Would you mind checking in on Kink during the day while I’m at Mr. B’s? Maybe let her out in the mornings on your way to work and then again on your way home?”
“Sure, I don’t mind. Might even take her home with me. Stevie Ray will keep her company. The kid loves animals.”
“Thanks so much. I’d take her with me, but I can’t risk Mr. B tripping over her and falling.”
“That would definitely suck.” Daphne looked around the room. “Where’s Lita been hiding out? I thought she took care of the dog while you’re at work.”
Charis sighed. “I didn’t want to say anything. It’s hard for me to admit this, but it looks like you were right. Lita’s shacked up with some younger guy she met on a local dating site. I haven’t seen her for days. I think she quit her job, too.”
Daphne shook her head. “I’m not going to say anything.”
“I really thought she’d changed. I think she really wants to, she just can’t find the courage. Since the age of fifteen, she’s never been without a man. She’s afraid to live life on her own.”
“Forgive me if I don’t share your compassion. I’ve known women like that my whole life. They wreck homes, neglect children, don’t lift a finger to help anybody else, and then expect a handout. I call them parasites.”
“That’s a little severe. Especially from someone who ‘isn’t going to say anything.’”
“Not severe enough. I’m sorry Charis, but I can’t help it. Lita paraded an endless string of scumbags through your childhood, destroyed your self-esteem, taught you a woman is only as valuable as a man’s opinion, and all before you were old enough to date. With a mother like that, it’s a wonder you survived, let alone earned a college education.”
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