Barbed Wire Heart

by Tess Sharpe

  It’s nearly dawn by the time Daddy gets back. He finds me in my room, wide awake. I’m curled around Busy on the bed, my back to him. I can feel the mattress dip as he sits down next to me, and the tightness in my chest uncoils when he strokes the hair off my face. It should make me flinch, those same hands that just hours ago were crushing the life out of someone, but it doesn’t.

  Like recognizes like.

  And I am like him now.

  “You okay?” he asks quietly.

  I nod.

  “I…” and then he stops, like he doesn’t know what to say.

  What do you say after all that training, all those lessons he’s taught me, is finally put into practice?

  This is what he wanted, wasn’t it? This is who he raised me to be.

  The kind of woman who can rule. The kind of woman who can kill.

  “You love Will a lot,” Daddy remarks.

  I’m run down, frayed at the edges like a cut wire, because I can’t control it—the laugh that bubbles to my lips, a sound that’s all disbelief that he doesn’t know this. That he hasn’t seen it.

  I turn over and look up at him, and I can feel the warmth trickle down my cheek, a single weakness, a single tear of truth.

  “I love him more than anything,” I say, and it’s not meant as a warning, but he should take it as one.

  But love makes you overlook the most obvious things sometimes.

  I’m counting on it.

  A month later, I walk into the diner where Dan’s girlfriend works and take a booth in the back of her section. I order pancakes and coffee, and I try not to stare at the curve of her stomach.

  She’s pretty. Really pretty. Even in the ugly polyester dress from the eighties that the boss has the servers wearing. I sit in the booth, nursing my coffee, watching.

  There are circles under her eyes, and the manager—some shithead with a patchy mustache and even patchier hair—keeps grazing her ass with his hand every time she passes by him.

  “More coffee, hon?” she asks.

  “Thanks,” I say as she fills my cup. She has to brace her back with one hand, the coffee cup with the other. I can’t imagine how much her feet must be hurting.

  “How far along are you?” I ask.

  “Seven months.”

  “Do you know if it’s a girl or a boy?”

  She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Boy.”

  My heart thuds, a sound so violent and loud, I’m almost afraid she’ll hear it.

  No regrets, Harley-girl.

  “Hey, Jessa.” The manager brushes past her, his hand palming her ass again. “I need you to take table four.”

  Her jaw tenses. “I’m on it.” She meets my eyes again, that false smile back on her face. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “He always do that?” I ask, nodding toward the manager, who’s now arguing with one of the cooks.

  Her cheeks turn red. “Don’t worry about him.”

  “You shouldn’t have to put up with that shit,” I say, grabbing a napkin and scribbling down my number. “My dad, he owns some restaurants. You call me if you ever need a job…or anything,” I tell her, handing over the scrap of paper.

  She tilts her head, looking puzzled, as she takes the paper. When she reads my name, her eyes widen, but she slips the paper in her pocket anyway before heading over to table four to take their order.

  It’ll take Jessa five years to come to me. She’s stubborn like that. When she shows up at the Ruby with the kids, I don’t look at her like I’m sorry because I’m not, even if I am guilty.

  Even if I am responsible for this path she was put on.

  She’ll never know because I’ll never tell.

  It was the only way.

  Thirty-Eight

  June 7, 4:45 p.m.

  It’s almost five by the time I get all the drugs unloaded into the armory. Afterward, I go up to the main house and shower, trying not to look at the red-brown water that swirls down the drain.

  When I go into my bedroom, Busy’s sitting on my bed, looking relieved to see me. I pull a fresh pair of jeans out of my dresser and yank them on.

  My phone rings. I look down, and my heart skips a beat.

  It’s Brooke.

  “Hello?” I ask, when I really mean Is he dead?

  “Where were you?” Brooke hisses. “You were supposed to be here at three to talk to the doctor. I called ten times.”

  “Oh fuck,” I say. I’d forgotten. “Is he okay?”

  “Harley,” Brooke says, and her voice sounds strangled, like she’s pushing down her frustration. “They said…it could be just hours. You really need to come.”

  “I—” I don’t know what to say. I have to go. The warehouse is next on my list. I need to take care of it while the chemicals are still inside, before the cooks have a chance to get them out of there after it gets dark. If I don’t, then they’ll have all they need to start up again. And I’m not about to let that happen.

  I have to finish this.

  “Harley, I’m not saying this for him,” Brooke says. “I’m saying it for you. You will regret it if you aren’t here. I know you will.”

  She’s right, of course. But I already have so many regrets. I’ve learned to live with them.

  I might have to learn to live with this one.

  “Will,” I say. “He’s coming. He’ll be there. And I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Harley,” Brooke sighs.

  I know she’s trying to look out for me, but can’t she understand that I’ve already betrayed him? It doesn’t matter if I’m there or not.

  At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

  “It’s the best I can do. I have to go.”

  I hang up before she can say anything else. I stand in the middle of the room for a second, staring at the phone in my hand, trying to convince myself it’s the right thing I’m doing.

  But blood’s been spilled. I can’t play the guardian angel in my head anymore.

  I’m the devil, like him. I just have different priorities. Some noble. Some not so.

  I text Will because I’m too cowardly to call him.

  Because if I hear his voice, I’m going to unravel. And there’s still so much to do.

  Brooke is waiting for you at the hospice. I’ll be there as soon as I can.

  I hesitate before pushing Send. And then I tap out one more sentence: She says it’s time.

  I stare at the words, my traitorous mind screaming no! even now. But there’s no miracle coming. And even if they do exist, Duke doesn’t deserve one.

  I press Send and put the phone in my pocket.

  I finish getting dressed, and instead of staying put like I promised Cooper, I load up the truck with what I need and head south.

  Duke’s main warehouse is a big building on a stretch of land at the end of a dirt road about five miles out of town. There’s a sheet metal place a mile up the road and a boat storage place on the other side of the highway, but other than that, it’s secluded. Quiet. Remote.

  Not somewhere a drug outfit operates out of. Which, of course, is why we use it.

  There’s no one around to see me after I dismantle the cameras. I unlock the doors, picking up the two gas cans I brought from home. Inside, it’s a lot cleaner than the trailer was. Long stainless-steel tables with arrays of flasks and burners, and orderly shelves and barrels full of chemicals, ready to be mixed to fuck people up.

  The drugs may be gone, but the real value is all this stuff, because once the threat’s passed, they’ll use it to start right up again. They’ll cook up more. They’ll sell it. I won’t be able to stop it—or them.

  So it’s time to remove the resources. Once this is all gone, they’ll be even easier to control.

  I pick up one of the gas cans, pull off the lid, and walk the length of the warehouse, dumping the gas in a long, splattering line on the floor. I toss the can on the ground, letting it leak and pool on the ground. I splash the gas from the other
can all over the tables and at the base of the shelves.

  I cough; the smell’s starting to get to me. With a hand over my mouth, I hurry outside, leaving a long trail of gas. I grab the can of spray paint from my truck. Busy watches me as I walk across the paved lot, to the very edge, and spray a MCKENNA where the fire won’t get it, finishing with a bold red X across the name.

  I toss the can back in my truck bed and dig in my pocket for the box of matches. With shaking hands, I pull it out and step toward the line of gas leading to the doorway. I scrape the match against the side of the box, and the flame bursts free.

  I drop the match, and fire leaps from the sliver of wood to the gas on the ground, spreading in a greedy line toward the warehouse.

  I run to my truck, jump inside, and squeal away, my heart in my throat, terrified it’ll blow before I make it out of range. Dust clouds in my rearview, and smoke will follow any second. I push harder on the gas, racing down the road, waiting, waiting…

  BOOM!

  The sound rattles the windows, and I can feel the blast of hot air even inside the cab. Busy yelps, then begins to bark furiously, staring out the back window at the plumes of smoke rising in the sky.

  We’re at the end of the road. I make a hard right, speeding off and away before anyone’s the wiser.

  “It’s okay,” I tell Busy as I turn onto the freeway heading back to town. “It’s okay, girl.”

  The trailer. The warehouse. The house on Shasta Street.

  Two down.

  One to go.

  By the time I make it back into town, it’s dusk. Shasta Street’s on the west side, where the little houses were cute once, but are run-down now. People try their best and they have some pride, but there’s only so much you can do without any money.

  I don’t park right outside the house, but choose a spot down the street near the intersection, between a beat-up minivan and another truck, mostly hidden from view. I have a good visual of the house from here, which is what I need.

  Buck’s black F-150 is parked in the driveway.

  He hasn’t gotten the news yet. It’s just a matter of time. Wayne listens to the police scanner like it’s his religion. A fire that big is gonna bring everyone out.

  Sure enough, ten minutes after I’ve started my stakeout, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Cooper.

  Springfield just hit the warehouse. I’m dealing with it. You safe at home?

  I text back: Safe & sound.

  A few seconds pass, and then a new message: Stay there.

  I’m not going anywhere. Not until Buck does.

  The lights are on in the kitchen but all the blinds are drawn, so I can’t see inside. That pink bike—the one with the training wheels—is on the front porch. It has streamers on the handlebars.

  This is for her, too, I remind myself.

  It’s hard to believe that, though, when just hours ago, I was picking bits of another kid’s dad out of my hair.

  “Only way,” I say, like it’s a prayer.

  There’s movement on Shasta Street. I straighten in my seat as the door to the house opens and Buck comes out. He doesn’t look around, just goes straight to his truck and backs out of the driveway.

  “Stay down, girl,” I tell Busy, pointing to the floor of the passenger seat. She jumps down, curling up, resting her chin on her tucked-in paws.

  Buck takes a right off the street, and I wait a good thirty seconds before pulling out and following.

  Tailing is always a risk. Following someone in a city is easier—there are swarms of cars and foot traffic and places to hide. But it’s harder to hide in a small town or on a two-lane highway. I can only lag behind the sedan between us and breathe a sigh of relief when Buck turns left onto I-5.

  The big rigs that wind up and down the freeway late at night and early in the morning are climbing the mountains, pushing the speed limit, trying to get their loads to Portland and meet their quotas. I pull behind one in the slow lane, keeping my eyes locked on the road ahead, where Buck’s way up in the fast lane.

  I’ve suspected his loyalty for a long time, but in the last year, I’ve seen things that have put me on edge. The first was when a bunch of red phosphorus went missing. Buck claimed he’d forgotten to reuse the phosphorus from the first batch and had to compensate. Duke believed him, but I didn’t. He’s been cooking for years—he knows how to recycle his chemicals.

  Then he disappeared while he was on a run with Cooper—he was gone for hours. Cooper bitched about it for a week afterward, but Buck just rolled his eyes and said something about picking up someone in a bar. There was something in the way he shifted and looked away that made alarm bells ring in my head.

  And the third time was the clincher: When Duke got sick and “went to Mexico,” I was put in charge of the money. It was the first time I’d ever had my hands on Duke’s ledgers. We were buying way too much pseudoephedrine and hydriodic acid for the yields the cooks were turning out. It wasn’t apparent if you didn’t do the down-and-dirty math, but I’ve always been good with numbers.

  Buck was tipping the scale, and he’d been doing it for a while. He was either cooking up extra and dealing on the side or, even worse, selling off the chemicals to somebody.

  There’s only one somebody in this county who’s willing to cross Duke like that.

  And Buck’s going to lead me right to him.

  My phone rings, and when I look down and see it’s Will, I let it go to voice mail. I can’t be distracted.

  My S10 weaves north through the Siskiyous, the tall pines so thick and the mountains so high they block out the sky and sometimes the moon. The higher we climb, the darker it gets.

  We pass the exit that leads to my house. And then thirty minutes later, we cross the county line.

  My phone rings. Will again. I let it go to voice mail. Again.

  The Chevy’s headlights hit a sign that says POLLARD FLAT, 1 MILE. Buck’s turn signal flips on, and he merges into the slow lane in front of the big rig I’m hiding behind, disappearing from view.

  This is it.

  I scrunch down in my seat. “Stay down, Busy.”

  When I take the exit, he’s already at the stop sign at the end of the off-ramp. I slow down, watching, as he turns right, and I count slowly to fifteen.

  Then I follow.

  Pollard Flat has nothing but a gas station and restaurant, and they’re on the other side of the highway. Wherever Buck’s going, it’s in the backwoods.

  I turn my headlights off, the darkness engulfing me. The only light I have is the fading red of Buck’s taillight and whatever moonglow can make it through the trees. It’s dangerous, it’s a little crazy, but it’s the only way he won’t see me on such a narrow road. It’s winding, the left side falling sharply into a long drop, and to the right it’s studded with pines so tall they don’t just loom, they tower.

  They also hide the houses, set high up the mountain or deep at the bottom of the cliffs near the creek. I navigate the hairpin turns, glimpses of Buck’s taillights spurring me on. And then suddenly I take a final curve, and he’s gone. Nowhere in sight.

  I slow the truck and spot the drive where he must have turned. I go beyond it a ways, then make a sharp turn around and pull over, partially obscured by a big oak, out of direct sight of the road.

  “Stay here, girl. Quiet,” I whisper to Busy.

  I grab my Glock and flashlight from the glove box, get out, close the door quietly, and then hurry back down the road, heading toward where I saw the taillights disappear.

  It’s pitch dark now. But I can hear the rushing water from the creek down below. I stop at the side of the road, closing my eyes; listening, listening…

  There. Up ahead, a truck door slams shut.

  I run, tracking the sound. My feet are silent against the pavement, and then across the forest floor as I veer off the road, up the hill, toward a faint light I spot through the trees.

  Duke taught me to be soft footed, to be quick, to be silent.

&
nbsp; To be deadly.

  I hurry through the trees, my legs burning as I climb. A few times I slip, but I dig in with my heels, grasping at rocks, branches, anything to keep myself upright. Now I can see the porch light on a beat-up mobile home, set deep in the forest, a rough dirt road leading up to it.

  Buck’s Ford is parked in the driveway. He leans back against the tailgate, his hands in his pockets.

  He’s waiting for something.

  Someone.

  I press myself tight against a pine tree, blurring my silhouette, watching as the door to the trailer opens.

  And there he is.

  My stomach clenches. My hand goes for my gun.

  He looks like I remember. Slicked-back hair, dirty shirt, mean expression.

  My trigger finger itches.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Springfield snarls.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Buck shouts back. “We had a sweet deal going on, and you decide to get greedy on me?”

  Springfield frowns. “What are you talking about?”

  “What am I…?” Buck stares disbelievingly at him. “You’re crazy,” he says flatly. “One word of what we did gets out, my name even crosses your lips, I’m gonna kill you. You understand?”

  Instead of looking cowed, Springfield smiles. “Well, someone’s got you running scared, don’t they?”

  “Fuck you, Carl,” Buck says. “Find another way to get your shit. Cook it yourself. I don’t care. I’m out.”

  He turns, showing Springfield his back. He’s either being brave or stupid—and I know he’s a coward. But Springfield doesn’t make a move—he just watches as Buck gets in his truck and drives away, kicking up dust and gravel as he goes.

  Springfield moves to go back into the trailer, but then, suddenly, his head snaps toward the forest, staring through the pines in my direction. He senses something.

  I push my back hard against the tree, holding my breath. Fear, the real, true, body-shaking kind, sparks inside me.

  I need to reach for my gun. I’m afraid the movement will catch his eye.

  But if I don’t, and he sees me…