Big Mountain Daddy

by B. B. Hamel

  I check myself in the mirror one more time, grab my keys, and head out.

  3

  Cora

  I barely have enough time to change and get myself together before Wyatt shows up outside.

  I knew he’d look into what the police have on Atticus’s murder for me, but I didn’t expect him to do it so fast. I have to admit though, I’m nervous for a few different reasons as I open the door.

  Wyatt practically fills the frame. He’s wearing faded jeans and a loose white button-down, tucked in. He looks both professional and gorgeous at the same time.

  “Mind if I come in?” he says.

  “Please do.” I step aside then lead him into the kitchen.

  “Nice place,” he says.

  “Thanks.” My apartment is pretty small, just a little one bedroom in a converted house. I have the bottom floor and there’s another tenant upstairs, though I never see him.

  “Want something to drink?”

  “Sure,” he says.

  “Wine?”

  “Sure,” he says again

  .I smile to myself as I open a bottle. I pour two glasses and hand him one. We clink and sip, and I watch him as he does it.

  Wyatt moves with purpose, which is something I’ve seen in other cops. But with him, it’s not obnoxious or practiced. Wyatt was a great athlete back in the day, and it really shows. There’s a lightness about him, almost a grace, despite his big, muscular frame. I’m only five foot four, and he’s almost an entire foot taller than me.

  “So, you talked to the cops,” I say to him.

  He nods. “Right down to business. I respect that.”

  I shrug, leaning up against the refrigerator. He sits on a stool next to the island. “I’ve been banging my head up against a wall with those assholes,” I say.

  He grins at me. “They’re just doing their job.”

  I sigh. “I know. I get it, you’re a cop too. But still, I’m frustrated.”

  His smile falters. “I can’t blame you,” he says.

  “What did they tell you?”

  He glances down at his glass, not able to meet my gaze. “Not much,” he admits. “But I get the distinct impression that they don’t really care much about this case.”

  “Fuck,” I say, anger welling through me.

  He looks up quickly. “They’re definitely investigating,” he says. “They have some leads. But there’s a bias against Atticus.”

  “I knew it.” I pace across the floor, angry as hell. “I fucking knew it. Just because Atticus had problems, they’re going to let his killer get away.”

  “No,” he says. “They’re not. They don’t want murderers running around this town.”

  I stop and look at him. “You just said they don’t care.”

  “They don’t,” he admits. “Which means it might take longer. But they’re not going to let this linger.”

  I watch him, trying to decide if he’s covering for his cop buddies, or if he’s telling the truth.

  He sighs and stands up. “Listen, Cora, here’s the thing. They need to close cases, prove they’re doing good, in order to get funding. Mason gets maybe a handful of murder cases a year, and they have to close every single one, which means making an arrest and getting a conviction.”

  “So they’ll find his killer because of… funding?” That’s almost worse.

  He shrugs. “I never said it made sense, or that it wasn’t fucked up, but there it is. They’ll do it, just slowly.”

  “Fucking hell,” I say softly.

  “I’m sorry, Cora. Truth is, this isn’t my jurisdiction. I can’t do anything about this here.”

  I don’t know what I expected. When I saw him at the funeral, and heard that he was a cop, I thought maybe, just maybe, he’d be willing to care about Atticus enough to help. Maybe Wyatt could solve this. I don’t know why I put so much effort and belief in this man, someone that left our town years ago and hasn’t been back since.

  He hasn’t been friends with Atticus since we were kids. Wyatt doesn’t owe me or Atticus anything at all. The fact that he’s here, and that he made some calls for me, just shows that he’s a decent guy. But he doesn’t owe me anything.

  Still, it’s not okay. It’s not okay that the cops don’t care about Atticus just because he had problems and was a pain in their ass. Atticus was still a person, and he was murdered. They have to find the killer. That’s what they fucking do.

  I lean back up against the counter and take a deep breath. Wyatt watches me carefully, and I can tell he’s trying to decide if I’m going to freak out or something. I look up at him and force myself to smile.

  “Thanks for trying,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he answers, looking a little relieved. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you better news.”

  “I just wish,” I start saying, but I stop.

  “What?” He cocks his head at me.

  “I just wish someone like you could investigate,” I say finally. “I mean, someone who cares about Atticus, or at least used to.”

  “I know,” he says softly.

  “Maybe you can take it on as a freelancer?” I say to him suddenly, not even sure if what I’m asking is possible. “You know, like a private investigator?”

  He frowns. “That’s not what I do.”

  “I know, but I could pay you. And it could be like a side job.”

  He looks away. “I can’t, Cora. I have to go back to Chicago soon.”

  “Yeah,” I say, deflated. “Of course you do.”

  “I wish I could help more,” he says, and then stops himself, because of course he doesn’t.

  Nobody wants to help more, not even Wyatt, the only person in the world that knows the real Atticus like I do.

  I put my glass down and meet his gaze. “You don’t have to stay any longer,” I say to him. “Thanks for trying.”

  He looks a little hurt at that but he nods. “Of course.” He puts his glass down and heads back to my door.

  I sigh to myself. What’s wrong with me? Wyatt is a good person and he clearly wants to help, but what do I expect? He can’t drop his life and investigate this murder. He doesn’t work in Mason, this isn’t his life. The fact that he showed up at all is proof that he’s a decent guy.

  I walk with him to the door. “Listen, thanks for coming,” I say to him. “Seriously, it was really good of you.”

  “Of course,” he says. “I’m sorry about him, Cora, I really am. He was a great person.”

  “Back then he was,” I agree with him. “I guess that Atticus died a long time ago.”

  He frowns. “Maybe,” he says. “It was good to see you again.”

  “Yeah. You too.” I let him kiss me on the cheek again before he turns and leaves my apartment.

  I watch him go for a second before closing the door. I’m such an idiot, such a stupid, stupid idiot.

  I shouldn’t be so pushy. I could have just been nice to him, thanked him, maybe convinced him to stay around a little longer. It’s Wyatt Reap, after all. He’s gorgeous, kind, smart, and the sort of person I should be spending time with.

  Except I can’t stop thinking about my brother’s murder, not even for a second. It eats me up inside, and if Wyatt can’t help me, then I have to move on.

  I lean up against the door and clench my hands into fists. I feel broken, like Atticus’s death took something from me. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t know if I can get it back, whatever it was. Part of me thinks that if I can find Atticus’s killer, then maybe that part will come back, or at least the gaping wound in my chest will heal.

  And I hoped Wyatt would be the guy to magically rescue me. I guess life doesn’t always work that way.

  I shake my head, fighting back the tears that threaten to tear me apart every second of the day, ever since Atticus’s body was found.

  4

  Wyatt

  Still in fucking Mason River.

  I could be back in Chicago by now. I could be rolling up into the Salt
y Pine, that little bar around the corner from the precinct where me and the boys like to tie a few on and try to fuck whatever pretty little thing thinks she can handle a real cop. I’m usually the one they leave with, and I always have them coming back around begging for more. That’s when the boys can get a taste, because I don’t take them twice.

  But here I am, still in Mason. I sigh to myself as I park my rental outside of the Great American again. Around nine at night, the diner crowd thins out, replaced by the pub crowd. That’s how small Mason really is: their most popular bar is also their one big diner.

  I can’t help but smile, though. Atticus and I used to spend a lot of time hanging around here. Actually, that’s how we first met.

  I was just a kid back then. I was a scrawny kid when I first met Atticus. I was riding my bike along the road and I decided to stop in the Great American for a soda before heading home. I parked, went inside, got my soda, and when I came out there were three older kids standing around my bike.

  I told them to back off, but they weren’t looking to rob me. They were looking to have a little fun.

  “You want me to back off?” the biggest of the group said, grinning his piggy grin. “I don’t think so, you little shrimp” He shoved me hard, and I slammed back against the wall.

  The three boys all laughed, and I can feel tears in my eyes. I was so mad at myself for being a little baby, for being too afraid to fight back. That was the moment I decided I’d never back down again.

  But I didn’t have to fight, because that’s when Atticus showed up.

  “Leave him alone,” Atticus said. “Jimmy, I know you’re too stupid to realize, but I know your daddy and he’d whoop your ass if he knew what you were doing.”

  The big, pig-faced one faltered. “You’d tattle on me, Atticus?” he asked, angrily.

  “Hell yeah, I would,” Atticus said. “You three are picking on one kid like a bunch of cowards, so I might as well.”

  I thought the big guy, Jimmy apparently, was going to step up and slug Atticus right there. But instead, he just kicked over my bike and the three boys walked away, cursing and laughing.

  Atticus walked over to me. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said, blinking away the tears. “I’m okay.”

  He helped me up from against the wall, and we were friends ever since.

  I was probably eight years old back then, maybe younger. I smile to myself and kill the engine before getting out of the car. Nothing’s changed in this town, nothing at all, and yet everything is rotten to the core.

  I walk into the Great American. Seeing it again at night, I’m reminded of how seedy the place’s gotten. I wonder if Cora ever comes here, but I doubt it. She doesn’t seem the type to come drinking at this shithole, and I don’t blame her.

  It’s packed with local idiots. The kind of guys that barely got through school, since school is for morons and pussies. It’s full of broken dreams and depression, guys drinking too much, hitting on women that long since stopped caring about that kind of thing.

  I spot Mitch sitting at the end of the bar, sipping a beer. I catch his eye and he nods to me, waving me over.

  “Hey, Mitch,” I say.

  He grins at me. “Hey yourself, big guy.”

  I sit down next to him and he looks at me, grinning. Mitch isn’t such a bad guy, as far as Mason lifers go. He’s a cop now, which says something about him at least. He’s a couple inches shorter than me, going slightly bald up front, still thin though I doubt that’ll last based on the two empty beers and the third he’s nursing. I order myself a beer and Mitch leans back in his seat.

  “Gotta say, I’m surprised you’re back.”

  I thank the bartender as she hands me the beer. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Can’t say Mason River’s got much on the big city.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” I grin at him. “But home’s still home, right?”

  “Right,” he agrees.

  “How have you been?”

  “Good,” he says. “Got married a couple months ago.”

  My eyebrows go up. I didn’t know that. “To who?”

  “Marcie Lane.”

  My eyes practically bug out of my skull. “Marcie Lane? You shitting me?”

  “Not at all.” He grins proudly.

  Marcie Lane was fucking hot back in high school, the kind of girl that every guy wanted. I don’t know how she ended up with Mitch, considering he was the kind of guy everyone ignored.

  He pulls out his phone and shows me a picture. Sure enough, that’s him and Marcie Lane in wedding photos. Marcie’s still pretty, though she’s gained a lot of weight since high school ended. She still holds it well.

  “Good for you, man,” I say, shaking my head. “Marcie Lane. Good for you.”

  He laughs and puts his phone away. “Thanks, man. We’re working on the first kid now.”

  “Good luck with that.” I hold up my drink. “To your long life and big family.”

  “Cheers.”

  I sip my drink and glance around the room. I spot a few other guys I vaguely recognized, though mostly everyone’s a stranger to me these days. I’ve been away so long that I don’t fit in anymore, at least it feels that way. Part of me itches to get back home again, but that memory of Atticus scaring off those bullies, and the image of Cora’s pretty face looking so determined, keep making me want to stay.

  We fall into small talk. Mostly Mitch catches me up on years of local drama and gossip, which is good, since I don’t have much to say. I don’t want to tell him about living in Chicago, about how much happier I am being away from this small town and its bullshit. But something he says after his third beer is finished really catches my attention.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?” I ask him, coming back into the moment.

  “The Niners,” he says. “That’s when things really got bad.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “They’re the local gang?”

  He nods. “Took over the drug trade, practically. I think they’re named after the Tech Nine pistol, but I haven’t bothered asking any of them.”

  “Huh,” I say. “I didn’t know there were gangs in Mason.”

  “Didn’t used to be,” he admits. “But these last few years, things have been changing. Selling opioids is a big business these days, and selling heroin to the people that can’t afford the pills anymore is an even bigger one.”

  I nod, not surprised. That’s a common story these days. So many people get addicted to opioid pills, but the pills are expensive as hell. Eventually, just to keep getting that high, they have to turn to heroin. That’s when the trouble starts.

  “Your boy was involved with them,” Mitch goes on. “He was running drugs for them sometimes. A real nobody, as far as they were concerned, but you know Atticus. He always found trouble, even when he wasn’t looking for it.”

  That surprises me. I didn’t know Atticus had gang ties. I never pictures him as getting involved with a gang, junkie or not. He just wasn’t ever the type.

  But that’s the thing about addiction. It changes you in ways you never thought it possibly could. You’re still you, deep down under the layers of all the bad filthy shit that’s happened to you, but you’re buried so far under your chemical need for drugs that there’s really nothing else left of you. People will do things they never thought they would, just to keep their fix coming in regular.

  Seems like Atticus did what any other junkie would do.

  “How involved?” I ask him.

  He shrugs. “Hard to say. They don’t exactly keep membership rolls and don’t like to talk to cops.”

  “But involved enough that you’re aware of it?”

  He nods. “That we’re sure of. He’s been busted a few times on minor drug charges.”

  I nod thoughtfully. “Could be the reason he got killed.”

  “Sure, we’re looking into that,” Mitch says. “I mean, the Niners haven’t been going around killing, yet at least. They’re threatening a whole lot
, and beating the shit out of folks that cross them, but no killings.”

  “Could be the first one.” I sip my drink, mind whirling.

  And then I catch myself.

  This is what I do. I can’t help it apparently. I told Cora I wasn’t going to get involved, but here I am, getting involved. Just asking questions and thinking this thing through is getting involved. I know myself, and if I let my brain get a hold of this problem, I’ll never let it go.

  I glance toward the front of the building. The memory of Atticus, smiling at me that first time we met, comes back again. That’s the kind of guy Atticus used to be. I doubt anyone here even remembers that boy, the one brave enough to stand up to three older kids just to help another kid he didn’t even know. He was smart, and brave, and loyal. He was a good person, before the drugs, before the gang.

  “You know any associates?” I ask Mitch, inwardly cursing myself.

  “Sure,” he says, looking wary. “I shouldn’t talk about it, though.”

  “Look, man. I’m just asking as a friend. I won’t step on anyone’s toes.”

  He hesitates. “Had a girlfriend named Kristi, she was involved with the Niners somehow. And there’s also Jaxson Moyer.”

  I perk up that that second name. “Jaxson? Really?”

  He grins. “Sure. You surprised?”

  “Guess not.”

  Jaxson was another guy from our grade back in the day. In fact, he’s the guy that Atticus slowly drifted toward, back when he started getting into drugs and our friendship was slowly dying out. Jaxson was the guy that started pulling us apart.

  I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s involved with the local gang. That kid was trouble, even back then.

  As Mitch starts talking about some other local drama involving Jaxson’s mom and the local Baptist pastor, my mind starts running through scenarios, trying to figure out how Atticus ended up dead. I don’t even have any details or facts, but I can’t help myself. I know these people personally, at least from back in the day. It’s been a long time since high school, and yet being back in Mason makes me feel like that same kid.