by Todd Morgan
“It was dirty.”
“You owe me an explanation.”
“No, Steven, I don’t. I owe you my gratitude for giving my daughter and your sister-in-law shelter. So, thank you.”
“If there is something going on,” he said, “I deserve to know what it is.”
“Nothing going on. Thanks again.”
He shook his head, crossing his arms. His right hand was still wrapped. “My sister-in-law? Madison? What is that all about?”
“I think you know.”
“Is it because she looks so much like my wife? Can’t keep your hands off her, either?”
Zing!
“Madison is…interesting.”
“I’ll say.” Steven looked out to the street. He was in his restaurant attire, dark pants, dark shirt, probably hoping for a busy Friday night. “She’s crazy. You should know that. Just like her sister.”
“I appreciate the warning.”
Steven took a couple of deep breaths. “Anything on Amber?”
“Not yet.”
“Last night have anything to do with her?”
“No.”
“Are you going to find her?”
“Eventually.”
“You need to think real hard about where she went.”
“Okay.”
Steven grunted. “You’re not going to tell me what happened, are you? Three gunshots and you spraying the deck in the rain.”
“Nothing to tell.”
Chapter Thirty
“Hello.”
“Remind me to never hire you again.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because, Beason, you’re supposed to help me win cases.”
“Okay…”
“Not derail my cases.”
“Eric, what are you talking about?”
“I just got off the phone with Cynthia Jenks. The divorce is off.”
“You got fired?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Why are you blaming me?”
“She wanted me to tell my private investigator how much she appreciates what he has been doing.”
“Sounds like an endorsement to me.”
“Uh huh. The only problem is, I never told her I had a private investigator. She thought I was doing all the work.”
“So you deceived her. Is that why she fired you?”
“No, Beason, I didn’t deceive her. I don’t tell my clients every single thing I do on their behalf. Cynthia is very happy with my work.”
“And evidently mine, too.”
“Except the divorce is off and my bride will not be getting her new kitchen.”
“You can have mine. I don’t use it very much.”
“I’ll be sure to send her over when it’s time to prepare Thanksgiving dinner.”
“I thought you went to her momma’s house for Thanksgiving.”
“That’s not the point. The point is; what have you been doing?”
“A man and wife are not getting a divorce. A family—with children—is not splitting up.”
“I’m a lawyer, Beason, and as you well know, we don’t have souls. The only thing that makes us happy are billable hours.”
“I’m sorry, Eric.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You know what?”
“What?”
“You’re right.”
Chapter Thirty-One
The gas logs were on, the wind howling outside. When I was a kid, we had a real fireplace. It was a real pain in the ass, too. Dad would take us out to a friend of his who lived in the country and cut down a tree. He never let my brother or I use the chain saw. He would, however, let us split the wood with a sledgehammer and a spike and then let us load it in the truck. He would drive the truck home and let us stack the wood next to the house. And then, when the temperature hit fifty, he would let us haul wood inside and try to get the fire going. It was never simple nor easy. The newspaper would light fast enough, but sometimes the kindling was slow to catch. And if we got that going, often the firewood itself decided against burning. There were no controls for the fire and if we did produce a blaze, the house became a sauna. Except for our bedroom at the far end of the home, which would remain at approximately the temperature of Antarctica.
I missed that fire. The pop and sizzle, the smell of wood smoke. The time I spent with my father and brother. The ritual of bringing in the wood and laying it in the grate. Burning stuff.
Sarah was down for the night. I hoped. I was in the easy chair, a rum and coke and shot of lime on the end table. A big one. I had killed men before and saw no reason to think I might not do it again. It was not something I was proud of nor looked forward to. I had killed people who had done much less to me than Trey and Q and the other kid whose name I didn’t even know. It was not a lie when I told Jeremiah about calling in the airstrike on that pitiful mud village. That was war. This was not. And I didn’t see the difference. I’m confident Trey and the villagers would not either. They were all equally dead. War. Self-defense.
And if anybody put my daughter in jeopardy, I would do it again.
I was not surprised to find my glass empty. I shook it, popped an ice cube in my mouth, sucked on it a moment before spitting it back into the cup. The internet had let me down in my search for both Amber and Stella. I didn’t have anything else to work with to find Amber—aside from Steven’s urging to think where she might have gone. Something would pop up and I would chase it or she would come home. Stella, though…
I stumbled up the stairs, looking for quite, not finding it. I paused outside of Sarah’s room to check on her. She was out like a light. Blondie was curled up on the floor. The dog gave me a dirty look. I went past the guest room and pushed into the master bedroom.
It was Erin’s now and I seldom (if ever) went into it. It held too many bad memories. The king bed remained, the dark oak dresser/bureau set. I guess there were some good memories, too, but I couldn’t shake feeling those were all built on lies, that the entire marriage had been cloaked in deceit. Forsaking all others must mean different things to different people.
I didn’t linger, going through the master bath to the walk-in closet. Erin was neat, a little of the OCD passing from her mother down to her. There were no clothes on the floor, the shoes all aligned perfectly, the blouses and pants and dresses hanging exactly in their assigned slots. The lone cardboard box in the corner had no place in my young niece’s closet.
I ripped away the tape, pulling back the flaps. I was moving fast now, afraid if I stopped I could not continue. The box was all that remained of Stella. Heavy on pictures, she and I (much younger) she and I and Sarah, Stella alone, Stella with some of her friends. The pictures of her with her family had been returned long ago to Felicia and Orrin. There were pieces of costume jewelry floating around, clothing that escaped the trip to Goodwill a year after she left. Our wedding album was in the bottom of the box. I didn’t have the courage to open it.
It was only minutes, but it felt like hours before I found the journal. I kicked the box back into the corner and retreated downstairs. I was going to need a fresh drink. A big one.
Chapter Thirty-Two
May 11,
B knows. I don’t know how, but he does. He lost it tonight, really blew up. He has made hints before, little jabs, talked about our need to work on the “relationship.” There is no doubt now. He gave me the ultimatum. We either talk to “somebody” or I can pack up my shit. Yeah, like that magical somebody can cast a spell and cure all our problems.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I am, though. I knew all along this day would come. Once, twice, maybe three times you could get away with it, but not when it’s your way of life. I learned that from mom. She says not to worry; this will blow over. She’s wrong. B is not fooling around. He’s had it. I misjudged him.
Or maybe I didn’t. Deep down, I always knew he had his limit—not like dad. I don’t want my family to split. I wish I could STOP and be a wife and m
other. I’m not a teenager any more, the time for a good time has come and gone. I can’t. I would say it’s an addiction—only that doesn’t go far enough. It’s part of who I am, in my DNA or upbringing or whatever and I can’t change it. My eyes will always be green. I have two legs and two arms. I enjoy pizza and cheeseburgers. I will always step out. I tried it straight for a while, after B came back from playing soldier. Lasted two months.
I love Sarah. She is so sweet and beautiful and everything right with this world. Yet, I must not love her as much as myself. Else I wouldn’t keep doing this, putting my fun over her happiness. Not like it’s fun anyway. The sneaking, the lies, the constant living on edge. The guilt. I look at her and think the last thing in this world I want you to be is me. What kind of mother does that make me? What kind of mother would betray her child’s father over and over?
A thinks we should run away. What a fool. How he got that idea is beyond me. What kind of life could we possibly have? Two cheaters. How long before we go back to our ways? A fool. An idiot.
I love B. That’s what really hurts. I love him and then I destroy him. I want to spend the rest of my life with him—except for a few hours every week when I go to a cheap hotel or another woman’s bed. Or worse. How could I ever have let other men into the bed I share with my husband?
B is going to see a lawyer. Of that, I have no doubt. Unless he already has. Beautiful child, loving husband, wonderful home—what more could a woman ask for? And I fucked it up bad. Real bad.
What am I going to do?
Chapter Thirty-Three
My glass was empty. I won’t lie, it hurt. I knew she had been having an affair with Adrian and didn’t believe he was the first. To have that confirmed, that Stella had been unfaithful from the start, cut to the core. I had no reason to be shocked. I was. She had been dating another guy when we had first begun seeing one another and for three months I had been the other man. Until he found out. To think I had been the first—or the last—was foolish. Adrian wasn’t the only one. Two months. For two months out of our four year marriage, my bride had been faithful.
I remembered the argument as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. I gave her that option; either we go talk to somebody or you can pack your shit. Word for word. I had smelled Stella’s perfume a few times when Adrian came back from lunch and assumed it had been clinging to me. At least, that was what I told myself. Until I laid down on the bed Stella and I slept in every night, made love in on a regular basis—conceived our child in—and smelled his cheap cologne on my pillow. I waited until the next day, not sleeping, fuming as the pieces fell into place. The obvious lies and the weak alibis. The mysterious phone calls. The tears that came from nowhere. Like tumblers in a lock, one by one until they all dropped into place and the lock fell away.
I stared at the pages in my lap. Stella’s looping, precise, handwriting. May eleventh was the last entry. I had started there, thinking it the most likely place to find a clue to her plans, where she had gone. What I found was heartbreak. Stella was not planning on running away with Adrian. That much was clear. That didn’t mean she hadn’t changed her mind. She had always been an impulsive creature and that agreed with the evidence I already had. She had taken only the clothes on her back and all our money in the world, save twelve hundred and four dollars. I had learned nothing. Nothing I could use.
There were more entries in the journal. Many more. They would have to wait. I got out of my chair to pour another drink. A big one. No coke. No lime.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Daddy.”
With some effort, I forced my eyes open. Sandpaper scraped across my pupils. My head was pounding. Somebody had dumped an ashtray in my mouth.
“What are you doing on the couch?”
I blinked, my daughter going in and out of focus. “I fell asleep watching television.”
“Your breath stinks.”
“Uh huh.” And my stomach roiled.
“Can I watch a show?”
“Sure, baby.” Saturday morning no longer held the special place of my childhood, not with eight twenty-four hour cartoon channels. I turned on the television and found one of Sarah’s favorites, a Hispanic girl and her monkey going on educational adventures.
I attempted to push off the couch. I failed. I lay back down, shutting my eyes tight. My stomach roiled.
“I’m hungry.”
“Of course you are.” I finally made it to my feet and into the kitchen. I filled a glass from the tap and drank it quickly down. Big mistake. My stomach roiled. I braced myself over the sink, fighting it. My brow was sweating. When the crisis passed, I took the Milo’s jug from the refrigerator and poured it into my glass. I sipped the sweet tea slowly. I poured a bowl of Fruit Loops (no milk) and called my daughter for her breakfast.
“You okay, daddy?”
“Daddy doesn’t feel good.”
“You sick or something?”
“Uh huh.”
“Your tummy hurt?”
“Oh yeah.” I popped Tylenol into my mouth and swallowed it with a little tea. It was going to be a long day.
“You need to go to the doctor? Get a shot?”
“I’ll be okay.” I shook out two Flintstones vitamins for her and two for me. “You need anything else?”
“Sweet tea?”
“How about orange juice?”
“Okay.”
That deep throated growl came from Blondie. I hurried to the dining room/playroom and pulled back the blinds, expecting to Steven’s unhappy mug coming up my steps. Instead, I saw the unmarked car in my driveway, two unhappy cops on my porch. What now?
“You look like hell.”
Randy said, “You’re one to talk.”
I shrugged.
Larry said, “Let us in.”
I said, “No.”
“Got something to hide?”
I stepped outside, blinking against the harsh sun. The cold sent icy needles through my bare feet. “Got a daughter eating breakfast.”
“We need to talk,” Larry said, “let us in.”
“You’re not coming into my home.” I held out my hands. “You can slap on the handcuffs and drag me downtown or we can talk out here. Don’t forget to call DHR to look after my girl.”
Randy almost smiled. Larry snorted. It was a chance I could take on a Saturday. I remembered how hard it was to get child protective services out on the weekend. Randy said, “That won’t be necessary. We just don’t feel like freezing our nuts off.”
“So talk fast,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Quentell Harris, LaMichael Axel, Montarius Moss,” Larry said. “That’s what’s up.”
“Who?”
Randy said, “You probably know them as Q, Trey, and M and M. You know them, right?”
“Q and Trey, I’ve met. I don’t know M and M.”
Larry snorted again. You’d think as much practice as he had at it, he’d be better at it. “They’re missing.”
I knew eventually they would be reported missing—but not this fast—and I was hoping they would never connect me to them. “Well, they’re not here.” My stomach roiled.
Randy said, “Let’s back up a minute. How do you know Trey and Q?”
“They jumped me outside of TJ’s.”
“How did that go?”
“Not too good,” I said. “For them.”
Larry said, “Why would they jump you?”
I winced. “I went to see Jeremiah last week and Trey was watching the door. We got off on the wrong foot.”
Larry said, “What did you want with Jeremiah?”
I made eye contact with Randy. If he wanted to let his partner in on our conversation concerning Jeremiah, it was up to him. I shook my head.
Yet another snort. “We found M and M’s car in the Bottoms, keys in the ignition.”
I winced again, this time keeping it internal. I had dumped his car on the way to pick up Jeremiah and Jajuan, hoping some kids would find it and take it
on a joyride. The one time I want a car to get stolen. “Why are you here?”
Randy gave me his flat eyes. His cop eyes. “The last time they were seen, the three of them said they were coming to teach you a lesson.”
“Crossing the Rubicon?”
“Yeah,” Randy said.
“Sounds like they were full of shit. Jeremiah wouldn’t stand for it.” Jeremiah—and the shot callers before him—knew to keep their violence in the Bottoms. If it crossed the Chickasaw River, spilled over into subdivisions and the suburbs (read “white”) the law enforcement in this county would fall on them. And fall on them hard.
Randy said, “They weren’t known for their intelligence.”
“Obviously,” I said. “They jumped me.”
“Where were you night before last?”
“Here.”
“Alone?”
I knew what they were doing, trying to lock me into a story. I could use Madison as an alibi, but that was worse than not having one. I wasn’t going to help them. “Maybe.”
Larry said, “The hell does that mean?”
I shrugged. “That means I don’t live in a police state and I’m not obligated to tell you where I go or who I see.”
Snort. “You damn well better if this turns into a murder investigation.”
Of that, I was not concerned. I didn’t know where Nero had dumped the bodies, but I knew they wouldn’t be found. “Until that happens, have a nice day.”
I started for the door. Randy reached out and grabbed my elbow. I looked down at his hand, back to his face. He let go of my arm.
“Jeremiah and Jajuan are off the grid as well.”
“You blaming me for that, too?”
It was Randy’s turn to shrug. “They’re not missing—though nobody knows where they are.”
“You expect people in the Bottoms to tell police where they are?”
Randy shook his head. “It’s not like that. Jajuan’s dog was found shot outside the grocery. They’ve gone underground. It’s like they are hitting the mattresses, like a war is brewing.”