by H. P. Bayne
“What the hell do you want?” The man’s voice was every bit as cold and hard as the gun in his hand, and the eyes just as soulless.
Sully fought to push his brain and his gaze past those eyes and the threat of the gun but found Kenton’s arms concealed beneath the long sleeves of a sweatshirt. No way to get a look at any tattoos he might have there.
“Uh ….”
“I asked you a question.”
“I was told I might be able to buy some coke here.”
The response took the situation from bad to worse as Kenton’s free hand came out and balled into the front of Sully’s hoodie, yanking him in and shoving him back against the wall. Sully winced as what was likely a set of light switches dug into his skin while Kenton kicked the door shut beside them.
Sully was trying to push away from the wall when the gun, its barrel brought to press up against the bottom of his chin with some force, had him changing his mind.
“You’re a fucking narc,” Kenton said, his voice unnervingly calm and close enough to Sully’s ear that he could feel the older man’s breath. “Aren’t you.”
It wasn’t a question, but it merited a response and a quick one.
“No, I’m not. I swear. I’m looking for some coke. That’s all.”
“I don’t fucking deal and you don’t use. I know a coke-head when I see one. Why don’t you tell me what you’re really doing here.”
“Let me go, and we can talk about it.”
“No, I think we’re going to have this conversation right here. Start talking or I’m going to put a couple new holes in your head and call this in as a home invasion.”
There was no way Sully could cop to the truth. If Sparrow really was being held against her will here—or worse, had Kenton already killed her—Sully would wind up buried next to her pretty damn fast.
“I’m looking to get into the trade,” Sully said. “I know people who know people and I heard you’re the guy to talk to.”
“You heard wrong,” Kenton said. Then icily, “Dead wrong.”
“But you’re a legend on the street.”
A lesser man might have bowed to the praise. Kenton Barwell was not a lesser man, and neither his gun nor his grip on Sully wavered.
“Who have you been talking to?”
Damn. “I’m not supposed to say.”
“Well, you’d better reconsider or you won’t be saying anything to anyone ever again. I had some damned little whore rip me off not so long ago. I’ve got no more patience for bullshit, and you stink of it.”
A rap on the door provided Sully with a moment to think, although forming a coherent thought was difficult given the unrelenting press of the gun.
“Who the fuck you bring with you?” Kenton asked.
“I came alone,” Sully said.
“Bullshit. No one comes here alone.”
“I swear, man. I don’t know.”
Kenton pulled back with his gun hand just enough so he could look Sully in the eye. “No, I swear. If I answer that door and I get even the tiniest whiff of a setup, I’m putting a bullet in both of you. You got me?”
Sully managed a nod and hoped for the best as Kenton released his hoodie to allow him to ease the door open a crack. The movement allowed Sully a glimpse down at Kenton’s arms, the sleeves having ridden up to mid-forearm with position and movement. Both arms were covered in tattoos, and old ones at that. Definitely no evidence he’d been limited to just one tattoo a month ago when Breanna was killed. What was more, Sully was able to pick out the candle dyed into the man’s skin. It was on the outer left forearm, not the inner right.
All of this, and they weren’t even dealing with the right man. Kenton Barwell hadn’t killed Breanna.
But give him a couple more minutes and it was likely he’d be responsible for a murder nonetheless.
Kenton’s voice was hard as he answered the door. “What?”
Sully couldn’t turn his head to look, but he recognized Bulldog’s voice. “Uh, hey there. I’m looking for my dog.”
There was a smile in Kenton’s voice when it next came, but whatever he found amusing was known only to the man himself. “You’re in luck. I think I’ve got your puppy right here. Come on in and get him.”
Bulldog’s voice was closer when Sully next heard it. “What, that guy? I’m talking about a dog, man. A yapping little cocker spaniel named Jones. You see a dog like that anywhere?”
Bulldog’s voice was solid and unfazed, the tone of a man who’d seen it all, survived to tell the tale and had emerged all the more jaded for it. There was nothing to suggest he was troubled by the fact the man he was addressing had a guy up against the wall with a revolver jammed under his jaw.
“Look, I’ve got a photo in my pocket,” Bulldog said. “Let me get it.”
“Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Here’s the thing, man,” Bulldog said. “It was a rough night. I let the dog out for a piss, and the little bastard took off and didn’t come back. My old lady gets home later today, and if she finds out I’m back on the bottle and lost her dog, she’s gonna bust my balls.”
“That’s your problem, not mine.” Were he not so preoccupied by the handgun, Sully would have been amazed by Kenton’s response—an indication he’d bought into Bulldog’s story. “Get the hell out of here.”
But Bulldog didn’t move.
“You got a problem?” Kenton asked him.
“Maybe you should let the kid go.”
“The kid’s not your problem.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Sully saw Bulldog shrug, noncommittal as ever. “Just looks to me like he’s been out of diapers all of three years. Bit young to have his face blown off.”
From somewhere in the distance came the sound of sirens, and Sully found himself wondering if Bulldog had failed to reach Dez—or worse, had been on the phone with him when Sully had been dragged inside the house.
Kenton looked from Bulldog to Sully and back again. “Look me in the eye and tell me this punk’s not your boy.”
Bulldog laughed. “Do I look like I’d be hanging with some dumb-ass white boy who looks like he’s probably trying to deal his way through college?”
“Are those cops coming here?”
“How the fuck should I know? I’m looking for a damn dog. Maybe the kid’s a narc.”
“Fuck. I knew it. I fucking knew it!”
Bulldog took a step closer, allowing him to keep his voice low and conspiratorial as he addressed Kenton. “I were you, I’d let the kid go and start flushing whatever shit you’ve got here. If the cops are coming ‘cause of him, better for you he’s found intact. And if he’s just a punk, I’m thinking he’s not gonna want mommy and daddy knowing he was here, so he’ll keep the last few minutes to himself. Am I right, junior?”
Sully nodded.
“Fuck,” Kenton muttered. It took him a few more seconds’ thought before he decided Bulldog was making some sense, and he let Sully go with a solid glare. “I ever catch you here again, we won’t be having a conversation, you got me?”
Sully didn’t have a chance to reply, Kenton turning and rushing into the house as Bulldog tugged Sully toward the door.
“Let’s go,” Bulldog said.
Sully didn’t argue, saving his questions for the jog through the yard and down the alley.
“Thanks, man.”
“Forget it,” Bulldog said. “And take a note. Dog story worked.”
“Are those cars coming here?”
“Not that I know of. I think it must have been a fluke.”
“So Dez wasn’t going to call anyone in to check on us?”
“I managed to convince him we weren’t so stupid as to check out Barwell on our own. He wanted to talk to you, but I told him you had a sulk on and weren’t in the talkative mood. I doubt that’s going to hold him for long. If I were you, I’d give him a call.”
The sirens had stopped somewhere in the distance, proving Bulldog right. They had been
lucky, that was all.
“Did we get anything out of this?” Bulldog asked.
“Did you see his arms?”
“Nope. As it happened, my eyes were kind of narrowed in on that .357.”
“Barwell doesn’t fit, Bulldog. His arms are covered in tattoos and the candle is in the wrong spot.”
“So all that, and this wasn’t even the right guy?”
“Yeah, looks that way.”
“Ordinarily, I’d be put out, but I have to say I’m thrilled Sparrow’s not in there with him.”
“Me too,” Sully said. “But he said something interesting, something about a ‘little whore’ having ripped him off.”
“Maybe he meant that Abby girl.”
“I don’t think so. The way he said it made it sound like the girl got what she wanted and got out. We were told he hurt Abby. Given what just happened, I’d say if he caught someone stealing, they wouldn’t get the chance ever again. Abby wouldn’t be hurt, she’d be dead.”
“So you think he meant Sparrow?” Bulldog asked. “If she ripped him off, that’s reason right there for him to want to find her and kill her. Rep like he’s got, he can’t afford to let word get around he’s soft on that sort of thing. Maybe he got to her already.”
“Maybe,” Sully said. “But that still leaves us with the guy Breanna’s been showing me, and it’s definitely not Barwell. Question is, if it wasn’t Kenton Barwell who Breanna showed me, then who was it?”
10
Sully had heard the expression about deafening silence before, but it wasn’t until this moment he really understood it.
Dez had picked them up a few minutes ago and had yet to say a word. The atmosphere thickened with all the things that hadn’t yet been spoken and some of the things that probably wouldn’t.
It wasn’t clear to Sully whether Dez was heading anywhere in particular, given he’d avoided the thoroughfare that would have led them over to Gladstone. And while they were still in the Riverview neighbourhood, Dez had taken them past the streets that led to the Black Fox, The Hub and to the place where Bulldog had stayed last night.
Sully pulled out his phone, meaning to check the time, but found his gaze diverted by the notification of missed calls from Dez. Seven in total.
Sully redirected his gaze from the phone’s screen to the side of his brother’s head, finding the jaw just as tension-set as it had been when Dez first picked them up a few blocks from Kenton Barwell’s.
“Dez—”
“Don’t talk to me.”
“Look, I’m—”
“Shut up, Sullivan.”
Sully faced the windshield, knowing better than to attempt further conversation. It wasn’t the “shut up” that had done it; it was the use of his entire first name, one Dez didn’t pronounce in full unless he was making a formal introduction or beyond pissed off. The use of the name Sullivan was just one step below a punch in the face as far as the two of them went.
And there was still a very real possibility that punch was on its way once Dez pulled the SUV over. Maybe Dez had come to the same realization and wanted to avoid it, because he chose that moment to break his silence.
“You can be a real selfish dick, you know that? You think I told you to stay away from Barwell’s because I was excited to drop in on the guy myself? And don’t try to lie to me and tell me you didn’t go there. The two of you weren’t just out for a leisurely stroll in a torrential downpour when you happened to end up a few blocks from his house. So?”
This sounded like a trick question. “So, what?”
“Tell me the truth. You went there, right?”
There was no right answer, except that Sully had never been able or willing to lie to Dez’s face. There were some truths he just simply hadn’t spoken out loud, but always ones Dez hadn’t realized needed exploring. There was a difference between holding one’s tongue and using it to lie, and it was a line Sully had never wanted to cross with his family.
Sully risked a glance back at Bulldog, knowing the movement itself would give them away. Bulldog met him with a frown and a shrug, and Sully returned his attention to Dez.
Dez who was now steaming like the kitchen of an Italian restaurant at dinner hour.
“Yeah, we went there,” Sully said, the words emerging so quietly even he had trouble hearing them.
Dez slammed on the brakes, sending up a spray of water either side. For a moment, he didn’t speak, white knuckles gripping the steering wheel and clenched jaw doing all the talking for him.
It didn’t last long. The Braddocks weren’t naturally violent, but they could yell with the best of them, allowing Dez’s natural booming voice an outlet to exhibit itself to its fullest. And Sully sat through it as he was verbally pummelled, knowing his brother had been right to warn them against going to Kenton Barwell’s and right to worry. Had it not been for Bulldog, Sully fully expected he would be dead rather than sitting here, suffering through the impact of Dez’s explosion.
It had to happen eventually, that Dez would turn his attention to Bulldog. “And you. How the hell could you let him go to Barwell’s?”
“Let me?” Sully cut in. His head spun with all the things he wanted to say, but a sudden fury he barely recognized as his own prevented him from stringing together any one of those thoughts into an actual sentence. All he managed were three words. “Fuck you, Desmond.”
He supposed it was down to shock that Dez didn’t make a grab for him when Sully jumped out of the SUV and started toward Riverview Park, just a block or so back and to the north. He didn’t expect he’d get far, and he was right, Dez cutting him off before he’d even had a chance to make it much past the vehicle.
“Get back in the car,” Dez said.
“No.”
Sully expected a threat that failure to obey would result in Dez’s putting his younger brother bodily in the vehicle, so he was surprised by the response that followed hard on the heels of a deep breath.
“Please, Sully. Get back in the car.”
The plea was there, not just in words but in Dez’s eyes, and it occurred to Sully they had entered unfamiliar territory. They’d fought from time to time, of course, as all brothers did. But never about anything serious, and never in any way that threatened to upset the natural flow they’d established years ago. Dez was older and had a past and a personality that lent themselves to protecting others, especially his younger brother—a fact he’d been plenty prepared to prove over the years. Sully, on the other hand, had been small and shy as a kid—in many ways, still was—and he’d happily nestled in under Dez’s wing. Most of the time, he was still fine with it, was laid back enough and appreciative enough to allow his big brother’s mother-henning to go unchecked.
But they’d hit a roadblock here somewhere, one Sully expected neither of them had seen coming. And beyond that, a fork lay in the road. He knew a lot of siblings who’d separated at that fork, who’d taken different paths and only came together once in a while —usually at weddings, funerals and tension-filled Christmas dinners. For Sully—and for Dez, judging by that imploring expression lingering on his face—that wasn’t a route either of them wanted to take.
Sully returned to the car.
They ended up back at the Black Fox where Sully grabbed the three of them a beer.
Dez was still vibrating with tension, but he had bitten his tongue on the matter, so Sully breached the gap with the apology he knew he owed his brother.
“I’m sorry, Dez. You were right. We shouldn’t have gone to Barwell’s.”
“Did you get anything out of it?” Dez’s voice was tight, but the question in place of an “I told you so” was further proof he was trying hard.
Sully shook his head. “He’s got the candle, but it’s on the wrong arm. And he’s got a pile of others. The arms Breanna showed me were more or less bare of other tattoos.” He took a swig of his beer before daring to utter the next words. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe I need to go back to the house where she di
ed, see if I can get a second vision of it.”
“No,” Dez said. “No way in hell.”
“Dez—”
“There are other ways. We can start checking tattoo parlours, see if anyone’s been doing tattoos like that. The ones you’ve seen, could you tell how old they were?”
“They’ve been there a while, I’d say. It was clear the colour was meant to be black, but it had faded out a bit and the edges weren’t crisp.”
“And were they identical, or just kind of similar?”
“I’d say identical,” Sully said. “The only difference that jumped out at me was the opposite arm thing, and the other tattoos Barwell has.”
“So that’s somewhere to start,” Dez said. He turned to Bulldog. “Any chance you could check out a few tattoo parlours for us, see if anyone’s done anything like that? It could be it’s just something in a book they’ve been doing for a bunch of people.”
“No offence to your theory, but Barwell doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who gets his tattoos out of a book,” Bulldog said. “And I don’t know a lot of tough guys who go running to get candle tats. Not quite butterflies and unicorns, but it’s sure as hell not a skull or a snake either.”
“Even so, hopefully given the candles looked identical, it’s the same artist. If we can find that person, we’ll be a hell of a lot closer to figuring out who they worked on.”
“So what about you two?” Bulldog asked.
“You’re right about the candle thing,” Dez said. “Not likely these two guys just pulled it out of the air. So it has to mean something. Fun part’s going to be figuring out what. Luckily, there’s someone I think we can ask.”
Marc Echoles had the look of an aging hipster.
The man who came to the door of his office in the university’s arts building had long, greyed hair tied back into a ponytail and was dressed head to toe in various shades of black.