Jagger headed to his food and water. The auto-feed jugs stood next to each other underneath the counter where she kept the trash can. It was a metal unit with a locking lid since Jagger used to knock over the old plastic container so he could raid it for scraps.
The waffle iron was on the counter, opened and unplugged. Two cooked waffles sat on a plate next to it. They were large golden discs. The squared pattern was slightly darker, making it resemble an edible checker board.
The waffles are done. So she didn’t go to the store because I was out of something.
Where did she go?
Amy found her answer written on a note that had been stuck to the fridge by a magnet.
Had to leave—Teresa.
“Well that explains nothing,” said Amy.
Jagger, slurping from his water auto-filler, stopped lapping long enough to raise his head. His maw was drenched. Runnels sluiced down his jowls, making soft ticking sounds when they dripped onto the floor. He ran his tongue across his snout, then lowered his face back to the water.
Amy touched the waffle. It felt cool and a little greasy, like a damp sponge. She grabbed the top one, put it on another plate, and opened the microwave. The rotating plate inside was dirty with overcooked spatters. She set the waffle inside and shut the door, then tapped some numbers on the pad.
As it warmed, she fetched the syrup from the small closet-like pantry. Then she took the orange juice from the fridge, grabbing the butter dish along the way. She put them on the small round table. The microwave beeped as she was getting a clean glass from the cupboard.
Sitting at the table, she used a knife to cut off a square of butter. She smeared it across the reheated waffle. After she had it gleaming, she doused the waffle in syrup, watching the squared indentions fill with thick brown. She even made a sticky puddle around it.
Yummy.
Jagger walked slowly to her, turned a circle, then laid at her feet. He put his head down on his outstretched forepaws and was sleeping before she’d taken her second bite.
Chapter Five
Janice had watched Amy from a window in her living room. Leaning against the wall, she’d tilted her head to see through the glass. The young woman had stood in the road, partially blocked by the trees, with her giant dog. She had been watching Nathan play. And, Janice assumed, had been thinking how horrible of a life Nathan must have.
He’s got it made!
Though Amy Snider had never done anything to warrant it, Janice couldn’t stand her. There was really no reason for the dislike. It was just there, like a feeling someone has and can’t explain why. They really should get along, considering they were close to the same age. Amy might be a couple years younger, though not by much. Both were probably considered attractive by men all over. Janice would bet in other circumstances they might even enjoy going out and doing what girlfriends did.
But Amy was still basically Janice’s landlord. And Janice had never respected anyone with any kind of authority above her. Though Janice owned the trailer, Amy owned the land it sat on and the septic tank and well in the ground. Everything else belonged to Janice.
Now, sitting on the couch and smoking a cigarette, Janice felt antsy. It was seeing Amy outside that had done it. She’d come to get the lot rent, Janice was sure of it. For whatever reason, she’d changed her mind.
Must know I don’t have it.
Janice had assured Amy she would bring it over this morning. There was a delay in her unemployment check, so what money she actually had needed to go to utilities. A food stamp card took care of groceries. At least they’d put the money in the account on time. Nothing like being owed money that just wasn’t coming in like it was supposed to.
Amy must be thinking the same thing.
Nathan’s laughter drifted through the opened window. With the A/C unit outside on the fritz, all she had to cool the trailer with was the breeze from outside that never seemed to be enough and some ceiling fans. If her check ever got here, she would go pick up some of those cheap window fans. Wouldn’t help much, but having them was better than nothing.
Janice stood up, leaned over, and flicked the ashes off her cigarette into the empty beer can on the coffee table, a leftover from last night. She hadn’t gotten so bad she’d started drinking in the mornings, but she feared she would be before long.
Crossing the room, she stopped at the same window she’d spied Amy through. She looked down. The bushes were overgrown and springy branches reached up to the window screen.
Nathan was out front, trying to twirl his plastic baseball bat like a staff.
She really did care about him. Whether it was love or not, she couldn’t say. Yes, she was his mother. She’d carried him the full nine months and birthed him. She’d breast fed him as a baby and cried when he said his first word.
Dada!
Some accused her of not caring about Nathan, and she supposed she’d never given them any reason to think otherwise. There were times when she assumed they might be right. She wanted to love him like a mother should.
She just couldn’t.
When Janice had found out she was pregnant, she’d wanted an abortion. She’d gone as far as setting up the appointment. Eric had talked her out of it. He had that kind of influence over Janice. He’d been the one who’d seduced her into the affair that led to her being thrown out of the home she’d once shared with Trent, her husband of seven years.
I spread my legs. Can’t put all the blame on him.
But she could put most of it on him. And she did, constantly. Usually the nights she cried on the couch until the beer finally made her pass out.
Like last night.
Eric had ruined her life and Nathan was the constant reminder of how much she hated it. Eric had convinced her to move into the trailer with him. Not a great life, but it hadn’t been unbearable for a little while.
Not until Nathan was just eight weeks away from being born and Eric killed himself. Washed down a dozen sleeping pills with some vodka. The eternal sleep cocktail, she liked to call it. Many nights she’d been tempted to make one for herself.
Each time she was tempted, she felt something nudge her inside—a cold feeling, unlike the sorrow she usually felt. At times she wondered if it was remorse.
On nights like that—like last night—she’d find herself stumbling down the hallway on the slanted floor that had never been leveled correctly. The alcohol made it even more treacherous, causing her to stumble into the walls, using her elbows to keep from falling. By some miracle she’d wind up in Nathan’s room. He’d gotten too big for a crib, so he slept on a child-sized mattress on the floor. It was the best she could do for now. One day she would get him a frame of some kind.
Last night she’d stood over him, watching him sleep, and had felt as if she might be able to actually love him.
After making it back to the couch, she’d prayed for the first time since she was a teenager. And she’d asked God not to let those feelings burn off with her hangover in the morning.
So far, they hadn’t.
She’d even cooked breakfast this morning, not forcing Nathan to eat oatmeal again. He’d been so happy eating eggs. He’d sung songs to her. Even with her terrible headache, she’d allowed it.
It had been the best morning they’d had in years.
Please God, let us have more. Help me to love my son.
Outside, Nathan tried to twirl the bat onto his shoulder as if he was a soldier with a rifle. The fat end bonked him on the forehead. Janice heard the smack from where she was standing, and winced as if she’d been the one hit.
Dropping the bat, Nathan looked confused and a little stunned by what had happened. A red blemish blossomed on his forehead, spreading like spilled fluid. It wasn’t blood, just a rapidly forming welt. He started to cry, but not like most kids who’d unleash a pitiful wail. He knew better. Usually when he cried like that, Janice was quick to make him shut up. Though it was clear that he wanted to cry and express the pain he was in,
he didn’t.
And this made Janice cry.
“Mama?”
Janice’s sobs stopped at once. Nathan had heard her. If he realized she was close by, he might want her to console him. That was something else she didn’t know how to do.
Biting her lip, she huffed through her nose. She screwed her eyes shut, taking deep breaths.
But didn’t answer him.
A couple minutes later Nathan was playing again as if nothing had happened.
Chapter Six
Deputy Mark Varner wanted some doughnuts, but when he saw the line of cruisers in Glory Doughnuts’ parking lot, he drove past. He’d give his colleagues time to get out of there, go back later.
Damn, guys. We already have a bad enough reputation for being lazy.
Shaking his head, Mark braked at the stoplight. He was driving through downtown Brickston, or what he liked to call Fast Food Central. Being a small town, they still had a vast array of popular chains, all within walking distance of each other.
Gazing into the rearview mirror, he could see the large pink doughnut on the sign. He sighed. His stomach grumbled to tell him how angry it was for being teased.
Patting his stomach, Mark said, “Be patient. We’ll come back in a half-hour.”
The light blinked green. Mark pulled his cruiser through the intersection. Other than him, nobody waited in either direction. Traffic was nearly nonexistent around this time. It was late in the morning, but the people in Brickston usually didn’t start filling the roads until closer to lunchtime. He enjoyed these calm moments. It was rare that he had to rush off on some kind of call before noon. And what he had to worry about afterward wasn’t much.
A big change from the night shift.
Working nights had nearly made him quit being a cop. During his downtime, which was rare, he found himself reading over pamphlets from the community college. A lot of people believed nobody was ever too old for a new career. Mark tended to disagree. He was in his mid-thirties and had been a cop for thirteen years. In his eyes, his options were becoming more limited by the week.
Mark turned left at the next intersection, heading toward the crummy district. Low income housing and government-funded living were all that was back here. Back when he worked nights, he could have parked his car out here and just waited for the calls. Sometimes he missed it, though he was usually quick to come to his senses.
He supposed those rare nostalgic feelings stemmed from how much time he’d spent here. He had memories, though none of them were quite pleasant. Not all of the people back here were criminals. Some were just prisoners of their convictions, victims of bad decisions. And he felt sorry for them.
Others had settled in this area, comfortable with how badly they’d screwed up their lives. Those were the kind of uneducated idiots Mark couldn’t stand. The worthless losers who thought they were smarter than everybody, though they’d gained nothing doing things their own way.
He quickly drove through Clancy, not bothering to take any of the side roads and going in deeper. He didn’t want to or need to. It was dead out here this morning, other than one guy wandering around talking to himself.
He reached a stop sign, clicked the blinker, and let the car crawl through. He gave one last look at Clancy before turning left and leaving it behind.
So much for being sentimental.
He was glad to be driving away, feeling slightly better about his current position after seeing where he used to be assigned. But he still didn’t know if he wanted to be a cop the rest of his life. It had already cost him marrying Miranda. He was shot in the leg by a guy hopped up on meth a month before he was supposed to become a husband. Miranda had already started moving into his tiny house and was there when they’d called to tell her he was being rushed to County Memorial Hospital.
They’d postponed the wedding. Miranda was patient and supportive during his recovery. A week after the leg brace had come off for good, she’d told him she was leaving. She was going to move back in with her parents in South Carolina and start over.
“You should do the same with your life,” she’d said, tears making her eyes twinkle under the light in his kitchen.
“I don’t know how,” he’d told her.
And it was true. Still, he’d taken her comment to heart and began thinking about other possibilities his life could bring him.
And that bag of surprises was a small one, more like a pouch.
“Not much else you’re good at, Marky-Mark,” he mumbled.
The radio sizzled and whistled high and sharp, tearing him away from his piteous recollections. Mark winced at the shrill loudness filling the car.
Carla’s voice came on, distorted and somehow sexier than in person. “Unit five, what’s your twenty?”
He snatched the mouthpiece from the cradle, raised it to his mouth, and thumbed the button on the side. “Dispatch, this is Unit five. I’m heading west on Honey Well, going back into town. Over.”
There was a pause. She most likely knew he’d been in Clancy and was wondering why since she hadn’t sent him there. The crackling static was starting to make him antsy.
“Your superior is requesting your assistance at the local gathering of your peers, Deputy.”
Mark groaned. Somebody must have spotted him driving past Glory Doughnuts and were now summoning him back.
“Carla? Did they really call you and make you dispatch me over there?”
“That’s an affirmative, Mark. Said the coffee is just right this morning and the doughnuts are fresh.”
Mark didn’t want to be seen with nearly all the other on-duty officers at the doughnut shop, but they really wanted him there. If he didn’t show up, it would make him look like a jerk.
“All right,” he said. “Heading over there now.”
“One more thing,” she said.
“Sure.”
“Make sure somebody brings me some coffee and a half-dozen?”
Smiling, Mark nodded, though he knew Carla had no way of knowing he’d done so. “You got it.”
“Would it by chance be you, bringing me the sweet treat?”
Mark felt the back of his neck growing hot. He’d known Carla had made her way around other officers in the past, yet somehow it seemed different whenever she flirted with him. As if there was something that yearned for more than a few nights in her bedroom. And that was exactly what kept him away. He didn’t want anything serious until he’d figured out what to do about himself.
“We shall see on that one,” he said.
“That’s good enough for me,” she said. “Signing out.”
“Over.”
The radio went silent. He returned the mouthpiece to the cradle and drove the rest of the way to Glory Doughnuts in silence. His mind had gone blank and he made sure it remained that way.
Pulling into the parking lot, he found an empty space between two other cruisers. He shut off the car. Sitting behind the wheel, he willed himself into the content policeman character. The others seemed to buy it, so he must be putting on a good show each time.
There’s a career. Actor.
Smirking at the thought, Mark climbed out of the car. He felt the heat of the day breath on him as he shut the door. It made his uniform feel even thicker and heavier against his skin, a bit clingy and sticky.
Adjusting his belt, he started for the shop, already enjoying the sweet aromas drifting from inside.
Chapter Seven
Clayton climbed into Teresa’s car and slammed the door. She didn’t drive off right away. Even though he wasn’t looking at her, he knew she was looking at him. He could imagine what she was thinking as she noted his black eye, scuffed nose and split lip. She couldn’t see the bruises under Mitch’s clothes, but she probably knew they were there.
“My God, Clayton...”
“You should see the other guy.”
“That’s not funny.”
Clayton sighed. He tugged at the flannel shirt that was two sizes larger than what he
usually wore. Teresa still wasn’t driving away from Mitch’s two-story farmhouse. He looked out the passenger window and could see Mitch watching them from a bay window. He looked concerned through the frown that furrowed his brow.
“Let’s get out of here, huh?”
Teresa swallowed. It made a wet plopping sound. She was about to start crying.
He saw her nod, then turn around in her seat. The car shifted gears and they started moving backward. She got the car turned around and was driving up the gravel driveway with cornfields on either side when the tears did come.
Clayton turned his head slightly. He could see Teresa. She sat forward a bit, both hands on the steering wheel, tears streaming down her face. It looked as if she was grinning from how her lips were pulled back. But he knew she wasn’t. She was fighting with all she had to hold back her true reactions to his condition.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
Teresa shook her head, still crying. “When’s it going to stop?”
“What do you mean?”
“This.” She waved her hand. “All of this. You.”
He knew what she’d meant, but had decided to keep playing dumb. It was the same trick he used to pull on his parents when he was a teenager.
“I can’t keep bailing you out of trouble,” she said, sniffling.
“Who asked you to, anyway?”
She turned to him, eyes wet and runny with tears. “You did.”
“Oh...right.”
“And of course, I came running like a good little doggie every time you whistle.” Though her voice was still shaky, she seemed to have stopped crying for the moment.
An image of Bruiser’s mangled remains popped in his head. The ripped open throat, the stringy bits spilled onto the floor, turning the dirt clumpy.
Clayton focused on Teresa’s legs to take his mind off Bruiser. It helped. The sun didn’t reach below her stomach. Tanned and smooth, her legs still gleamed in the soft shadows as if she’d rubbed them in lotion. Her skirt hung back on her thigh down to the curve before her rump. He could see the seam of her dark panties.
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