Barbed Wire Heart

by Tess Sharpe

  I’ve reached a point beyond reason, and Daddy just hasn’t realized it yet. The damage has been done. He pushed me too far that day in the shed and now he has to deal with the consequences. He raised me to rule—and I will rule him when it comes to Will.

  “He’ll leave for the spring semester in January,” I continue as if Daddy hasn’t said anything. “You’ll pay for all of it. His room and board in the dorms or an apartment. His tuition. His books. I’ll take care of everything at Fir Hill with Miss Lissa while he’s away.”

  “Is that right?” he drawls.

  I tilt my chin up and plant my hands on either side of his desk for support. If I don’t grab onto something, I’m never going to have the strength to do this.

  “You let him go,” I say, “or I will run.”

  Now I’ve got his attention.

  Now he won’t treat this like a joke.

  Now he knows how far I’m willing to go.

  He sits up straight, his eyes glittering. “You’re forgetting your place, Harley Jean,” he warns.

  I don’t blink or move. “You have no idea what I’ll do to get him away from you,” I say. “I’m offering you the easiest way out. If you don’t take it, I’m gone.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” he scoffs.

  “Try me.”

  Threatening Duke McKenna is a monumentally bad idea; I know grown men meaner than a wounded coyote who won’t dare do it. But I throw it out there like a brand. I want to leave a scar, want him to know what he’s done.

  What—or who—all his lessons have hardened me into.

  He doesn’t laugh, like I half-expect him to. He doesn’t hit me either, which is my second guess. There’s no scary gleam in his face, that look he gets right before he slides his knife into flesh that parts like butter. But he looks at me like he’s not quite sure who I am.

  “I’d find you.”

  “You trained me to disappear. So how successful do you think that’s gonna be?”

  His mouth flattens as he realizes how serious I am.

  I go in for the kill, hit him where it’ll hurt the most, because in this moment, I am all his, through and through: willing to do anything, to hurt anyone, ignoring the consequences…because I have to be.

  I have to keep Will safe from him.

  “You’ll never see me again. And he’ll go with me, you know that. I want you to stop and think here. You won’t walk me down the aisle at my wedding. You’ll never hold your grandchildren. You’ll have no heir, no one to inherit your empire. Think about that. Think about that long and hard, because if you push me, I’ll do it.”

  “You’re acting like a hysterical little girl,” he growls. “I will not tolerate this kind of behavior from my own daughter. You will behave the way I raised you—do you hear me, Harley Jean?”

  But the anger’s too hot. It sears through everything else. My mind’s full of it, my body’s consumed by it, it burns and burns until I can’t take it.

  “You left Will with Doc,” I spit out. “You didn’t even take him to the fucking hospital when he needed to go! You risked his life so you wouldn’t risk your own.”

  “I risked him for you,” Daddy roars, springing from coiled and controlled to furious in seconds.

  “He is mine!” I barely have the sense to feel anything at the way Daddy’s eyes widen. Those words mean more than I love him or I want him. They mean things like I’ll kill for him and I’ll die for him, because of him, with him.

  Daddy clears his throat, shaking his head, like he’s trying to banish my words from it. “You’re upset,” he says slowly. “I understand. It’s been a bad few months. You should go upstairs and rest.”

  “I’m not leaving until we have an agreement.”

  A muscle twitches at the corner of his eye. I can see it fluttering underneath his glasses. “I’m giving you an out,” he says between gritted teeth. “Take it.”

  “You really want to push me again?” I ask. “You wanna see the woman you made, Duke?”

  He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me, like he hopes that if he’s quiet enough, I’ll just go away.

  But I’m done playing his games. It’s time for some of my own.

  I pick up the phone on his desk—it’s an old-school one with a handle and a cord and a rotary dial. “I could call the DEA right now,” I say. “Give them the truck routes and schedules. I bet they’d be mighty interested in your cargo.”

  He lunges toward me, yanking the phone out of my hand.

  “You…” He’s so angry he can’t even speak, his face turning a blotched red. I force myself to keep looking at him.

  I can’t save myself. I am who I am, and I’ll do what I have to do. But I can save Will.

  “You know if you were anyone else, you’d be dead on the floor right now,” he finally says.

  I’ve gone beyond anger at this point, settled into a strange calm. I walk around to his side of the desk and I pull out the .45 he keeps in his drawer right behind the picture of Momma and me. I place it on the desk so he can reach it easily. My palms are sweating as I dare him: “Go ahead. Put me down. Gonna bury me in the woods next to the others? Dump me in the river? A chainsaw, some lye, a little hydrofluoric acid, and there’ll be nothing left but my teeth. Isn’t that what you taught me?”

  He lets out a sound, something between a groan and a snarl. I stare at the gun, waiting.

  He doesn’t move. Just looks at me, bewildered and miserable.

  “Let him go,” I beg. I hold out my hand, a peace offering, an apology, a plea. “And I’ll never leave.”

  “Fine,” he says. He grasps my hand, but instead of shaking it, he pulls hard, until I stumble into his chest.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are?” he asks, his face right up against mine, staring at me.

  Despite the fear that’s thickening inside me like syrup, I stand my ground and stare back at him.

  “I’m a McKenna.”

  He lets go and hits me straight across the face with the phone, knocking my head to the side.

  I grit my teeth, dazed and tasting blood. I’m pretty sure my nose is broken. I can barely breathe.

  My eyes tear up. I gasp, because I can’t help it. But through the pain I raise my eyes to meet his. Blood trickles out of my nose and mouth, down my chin. I don’t brush it away or swallow it back.

  I want him to see what he’s done.

  “You ever do that again, I won’t just bury you,” I tell him. “I’ll dance on your fucking grave.”

  Forty-Six

  June 8, 9:30 a.m.

  I’m lying flat on my back on the carpet between the seats as Molly pulls onto Riverside Road and parks the van down the block so we have a clear view of Buck’s house.

  “Black truck’s in the driveway,” Molly says.

  “Okay,” I say. I flip over on my stomach, rooting around in my bag. I’m surrounded by cardboard boxes full of meth—a third of the product the cooks had collected for me. Four duffel bags full of guns sit on the backseat. I had to push a big box of Bibles out of the way to fit them all in.

  I take Duke’s phone out of my bag, pulling up Buck’s name in the contact list, and start typing.

  Just got into town. Harley’s filled me in. Meet at Tropics. Now.

  I bite my lip, my thumb hovering over the Send button.

  He needs to be taken care of. This isn’t the only way, but it’s the best way.

  If it works.

  Please let it work.

  I press Send.

  “So we’re supposed to just sit here and wait?” Molly asks.

  “Give it a few minutes.”

  She sighs. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  “It’ll be done soon.” It’s killing me that I have to stay down, but it’s safer this way. Less chance of Buck accidentally catching sight of me.

  The church van is perfect camouflage. No one thinks twice when they see it. Molly does regular routes bringing meals to the elderly, handing out clothes, a
nd picking up donations. It’s an ordinary sight—perfect to transport enough drugs and guns to put someone in prison for the rest of their life. No one’s gonna pull it over or really even notice it. Not with sweet little Molly Evans driving.

  “So why did you stop coming to church?” Molly asks.

  “I was worried I was gonna get struck by lightning,” I say. “Any movement out there?”

  She shakes her head. There’s a buzz coming from my duffel, and I look inside to see that the phone I took off Bobby Springfield is vibrating.

  The idiot doesn’t even have a lock code on his damn phone. I swipe it on. Text message from his uncle Carl.

  Did she show up?

  I tap my fingers against my mouth.

  “Hey, Harley,” Molly says, straightening in the front seat. “Someone’s coming out.”

  “A guy?”

  “Dark hair, skinny?”

  I nod. “That’s him.”

  “He’s getting in the truck.”

  “Tell me which way he turns.”

  Seconds tick by. “Right. He’s just turned right at the stop sign at the end of the street.”

  “Okay.” We’re in the clear. I sit up, grabbing the baseball cap and sunglasses. I stuff my braid in the hat and slip on the glasses. “Stay here.”

  I get out of the van and walk across the road toward Shasta Street. There’s an old lady watering the roses in her front yard next to Buck’s house, and she squints at me as I walk up the path and knock on the door.

  Buck’s wife, Lindsay, is a tall blond woman who runs the beauty salon in town. She always has perfect hair and calls everyone sweetie. I’ve never seen her without full makeup on. Today, her lips are painted a bright red to go with her gel nails.

  She frowns when she sees me. “Harley? Sweetie, what happened to your face?”

  I look over my shoulder. “Can I come in?”

  She steps aside to let me. “You just missed Buck,” she says.

  “Has Buck told you what’s going on?”

  “He said there was trouble, but didn’t say what.”

  “It’s bad,” I tell her. “Springfield’s attacked. I came to get you and Shawna. Carl’s out of control. He sent Bobby to beat me up. I want you two to come stay at the Ruby just as an extra precaution. He’s setting fires, and when I was little, he…” I trail off. It makes me feel sick to use Momma’s death like this, but it’s to save Lindsay’s ass that I’m sinking so low.

  “Oh, God,” Lindsay says, horror in her heavily lined eyes. “Of course we’ll go. Of course.” She looks around, like she doesn’t know what to do.

  “Why don’t you get Shawna?” I suggest.

  “Yes, yes, good idea.” She hurries out of the living room, into the hallway, calling her daughter.

  Lindsay’s purse is on the couch, and I go over to it, rummaging through the various makeup bags and receipts to find her phone. I turn it off and pocket it, grabbing the purse as Lindsay comes back into the room, Shawna clutching her hand.

  Shawna’s dark-haired like her daddy, but she looks more like Lindsay: pretty, big eyes, turned-up nose. She smiles when she sees me. “Hi, Harley!”

  “Hi, honey. You guys ready?”

  Lindsay nods.

  I hand her the purse and her keys. “Drive straight to the Ruby. Mo will be waiting for you at the main office. She’ll get you all set up and comfortable. I’ll send Buck to you as soon as I can.”

  “Aren’t you coming with us?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “I’ve got to get back to the Tropics. Go now. Don’t stop for anything. And don’t leave the Ruby.”

  She and Shawna go out to her car and I watch from the window as they turn left, heading toward Main Street. Away from the house, away from Buck, and away from the trouble I’m about to cause.

  As soon as they’re gone, I leap into action. I text Molly: All clear. Back up into the garage.

  As I walk through the house, I dial Mo’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “Mo, in about fifteen minutes, a woman named Lindsay and her little girl will show up,” I say, walking into Lindsay’s kitchen, Shawna’s half-full cereal bowl still on the red-and-white table. I head to the door that leads to the garage. “Put them in cottage number four. Keep a close eye on them. And Mo? She’s gonna be looking for a phone. Don’t let her find one. Not until I text you the okay.”

  “And if she gets her hands on one?” Mo asks.

  I pull on my gloves before I push open the door to the garage and step down into it. “She can’t. So make sure she doesn’t. And don’t let anyone in after her. Tell the Sons on guard duty. If anyone shows up…”

  “You wanna tell me who anyone actually is?” Mo sighs, like she expects me to dodge again.

  “It’s Buck,” I say. In a few days, if all goes right, she’ll know anyway. “She’s his wife.”

  “He beat her?”

  “No,” I say. “I need her out of the house.”

  “I’m not even going to bother to ask why,” Mo says. “I’ll make sure she and the kid are kept away if he shows up. You reckon that’s gonna happen?”

  “Not if I have anything to do with it,” I say. “Call me if there’s a problem.”

  “We’re talking about a raise for me after whatever shit’s going down wraps up,” Mo says.

  “Fair enough,” I say. “Bye.”

  My phone buzzes. It’s a text message from Molly: I’m here.

  I find the button for the garage door, press it, and it rolls up. Molly’s backed the van into the driveway, and I jog up to its rear doors and jerk them open.

  “You got your gloves?” I ask Molly as she gets out of the van. She nods.

  “Put them on and help me. We’ve gotta be quick.” I lean into the van and grab the nearest box. “Mix them in with the stuff over there,” I say, pointing at the far wall, where boxes are stacked on shelves.

  We move fast. I fit one of the duffel bags of guns in the freezer that’s half-full of venison. Another goes back in the house, in the master bedroom under the bed along with a few Ziplocs of drugs. I put the third up in the attic and jam the fourth behind a stack of boxes in the spare bedroom closet.

  “This is the last one,” Molly says, setting the box on the middle shelf next to one labeled BABY CLOTHES.

  I grab the garage door remote from its place on the counter and then hop into the van, shutting the doors behind me. Molly gets in the driver’s seat, starts the engine, and drives out of the garage. I hit the button on the remote. The door closes behind us and we drive away.

  “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” Molly mutters under her breath as she turns off Shasta Street and we head back to the outskirts of town.

  “You’re freaking out now?” I ask. She’d been calm as hell in the garage.

  “I can’t believe I just did that,” she says. “Oh my God. Harley, what did I just do?”

  “You just made North County a little safer.”

  “You are so full of crap,” she says.

  “Not this time,” I say. “Don’t speed. It’d suck to get caught now.”

  She huffs hard through her nose, but she slows back to the speed limit.

  I check the phones in my duffel. Daddy has three missed calls from Buck. I grab my own, dialing the number for the Tropics.

  “This is Sal.”

  “It’s Harley. Buck there?”

  “He just left.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “He seemed mighty pissed,” Sal says.

  I bet he is. He’s trying to put it together. He’ll come looking for me. But first, he’ll stop at home to load up.

  “I’ll talk to you later, Sal,” I say.

  Molly pulls onto the road that cuts through the willows, leading to the back of the church where my Chevy is parked. As soon as she’s brought the van to a stop, she leaps out and starts pacing up and down beneath the willows, nervous energy radiating off of her.

  “Hey, Molly,” I say. “It’s okay.”<
br />
  “That was…that was…” She looks up at me, those baby-doll eyes of hers wide. “That was exciting,” she whispers.

  It’s not what I expected. I raise my eyebrow. “Really?”

  “I should not have liked that so much,” she says. Instantly, the good Christian girl’s back. She’ll be mentally flogging herself by the next breath.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say. I start to head toward my truck. “I gotta go.”

  “Wait, Harley. Did…did you really mean it? That it’ll make this place safer?”

  “Yes,” I answer, and she can tell I mean it.

  “But why would you want that?” she asks, confused.

  I pause, my hand on the handle of the truck door. “Because I want a better world than this.”

  She doesn’t know it, but she’s one of the people who make me think that.

  “Bye, Molly.”

  She smiles faintly. “Bye, Harley.”

  I climb into my truck and drive through the willows, their long branches swaying in the wind. My skin’s humming, and I flex my fingers a few times, trying to get rid of the feeling. I need to focus and get back to Shasta Street.

  I’ve set my trap. Now I just need him to walk into it.

  The street behind Shasta has an undeveloped greenbelt, and I turn onto it. I park the truck out of sight and head out on foot. An oak tree borders the place five houses down from Buck’s. About fifteen feet up, it’s got a clear view of his house.

  I hoist myself up in the branches, out of sight, settle in against the trunk, and bring out my rifle scope.

  Buck’s truck is already back in the driveway.

  It’s time.

  I grab the burner cell in my back pocket and dial 911.

  “North County Dispatch, what is your emergency?”

  “Oh my God,” I say, breathing hard. “I was just jogging on Shasta Street and I saw a guy with this giant gun or rifle or whatever go into a house. The blue one! Um, number one-fifteen. There was shouting and then I heard a bunch of shots. Please hurry! I think there’s a kid in there; there’s a little girl’s bike on the porch.”

  “Are you still in the vicinity, ma’am?”

  I hang up, smashing the burner hard against the tree trunk. The cheap plastic shatters, chunks of screen showering onto the ground below.