Starling (Southern Watch Book 6)

by Robert J. Crane

  It didn’t matter though. Lucia hadn’t answered a one in any way other than ones Michael and Karen would have approved of.

  The doctor must have decided she wasn’t going to get anything out of Lucia, because she said, “I’ll be back later to check on you. Think about what I said? Nobody can help you if you don’t tell us what’s wrong.”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Lucia said, and thank fuck she left after that.

  Lucia watched TV some during the day, because she didn’t have anything else to do. She wasn’t exactly the crossword puzzle type. The days were long and boring.

  Lunch came. It was a chicken breast covered in salty gravy. There was tapioca pudding on the side, like jizz in a little bucket. She didn’t eat it, and thought of Ray. Her pussy still hurt, just like the rest of her, but not nearly as much as it had. The painkillers helped, and they had her on a nice drip of them. She pushed the tray away.

  Lucia lay her head down for a little bit. Darkness flowed in around the edges of her consciousness, but sound stirred her back when she started to drift off.

  There was someone at the door. Dark hair, bright eyes creased with concern.

  “Lara?” Lucia asked, blinking out of her sleep. She couldn’t tell at first, but the figure resolved into the young girl, Lucia’s best—sometimes she’d felt like only—friend back in Fort Oglethorpe. She blinked again; it felt like some remnant of her old life, the one where she had actual parents and a house of her own, had crossed into this new reality of pain, of disconnection, of feeling...

  Worthless.

  “Hey,” Lara said, in that quiet manner like she was afraid the sound would break Lucia. She drifted in tentatively from the door.

  Her mother followed after. Lucia didn’t really know Ms. Black all that well. They’d met a bunch of times when Lucia had gone to Lara’s house, but … she didn’t really know her. Just nodded or talked for a second while passing through from door to living room, or vice versa.

  “How are you feeling, Lucia?” Ms. Black asked. She was a very definite Ms. She had a lighter shade of auburn hair, completely unlike Lara’s. Hers was full of life, almost glimmering. Lara’s hair hung in limp ringlets. Ms. Black sounded a little more alert, like she wanted to be there, than Lara did.

  “Fine,” Lucia lied again. It was getting to be easy to say.

  Lara eased up to her bedside; Ms. Black didn’t hesitate, following her daughter right up and lingering. She brushed Lara’s hair back and Lara seemed to struggle to find something to say.

  Ms. Black didn’t. “We came to see you a few days ago too, but you were sleeping. Good to see you’re awake.” She smiled down at Lucia, and it felt a little funny—

  Like she was genuinely, sincerely happy to see her.

  Lucia looked down. “Yeah. I’m sleeping some.” Like it was her fault. Well, it kinda was.

  “You need rest,” Ms. Black said, just taking right over when Lara didn’t say anything. “To make a recovery.” She had a big purse, and it hung from her arm. “Have the doctors told you when you might get out?”

  “Umm, I don’t know,” Lucia said, looking down. She hadn’t asked. Maybe they’d said and she hadn’t heard. She wasn’t exactly in a hurry to get back to Michael and Karen’s and the smoky air. It felt like she would choke to death in it.

  “Oh.” Lara’s voice was soothing and encouraging, like, “Oh, you got a passing grade on your algebra test.”

  “Oh,” Ms. Black said, and hers was more like, “Oh, I know you’re lying, but I respect you enough not to call you on it right here in front of your bestie.” Her eyes told more of the tale than the “Oh.”

  “Did you talk to my doctor?” Lucia asked, feeling the faint buzz of nervousness like a bow drawn across strings. She thought of the sound it made from when she had taken band, before she’d moved in with Michael and Karen. Before the crash.

  “They don’t talk to anyone but your legal guardian about your health,” Ms. Black said warmly, and yet … there was a point—a little sting buried in there. Lucia didn’t think it was aimed to her, but …

  “That’s okay,” Lucia said. She couldn’t think of anything else.

  “Lara,” Ms. Black said, brushing her daughter’s arm, “would you be a dear and go get me a cup of coffee?” She reached into her purse and came out with a ten. “At the cafeteria.”

  Lara’s brow knitted in a rumpled line. “There was a machine just back—”

  “I know,” Ms. Black said, smiling down at Lucia. “Those machine coffees taste like someone shit in the filter. Go get me one from the cafeteria?”

  Lara stared at the tenner for a second, then pulled the rumpled bill from her mother’s stubby fingers. “Okay.” She shrugged and went for the door, disappearing into the hallway and beyond.

  Lucia had been tempted to call out to her, not really sure why Ms. Black didn’t just get her own damned coffee; it wasn’t like she knew the woman, after all …

  “Welp,” Ms. Black said, once Lara was out, walking slowly over to the door and pushing it shut before she turned back to Lucia and gave her a flat stare. “You look like hell.”

  “Uhm.” Lucia didn’t know what to say to that, either.

  “You know how you answered earlier?” Ms. Black sidled back over to the bed, bulging purse still hanging on her arm, creasing it neatly and fading the skin on either side of the leather strap. It was like a thin strip of pale white between the leather and the sun-kissed rest. “‘Fine.’” She said it in a slightly higher-pitched voice, then shook her head. “Gah!” A noise of frustration burst loose. “I remember answering people like that. Fuck.” She closed her eyes.

  Lucia just froze. “I … don’t know what—”

  “Yes, you do,” Ms. Black said, eyes springing open and finding her, coolly. “Somebody beat the hell out of you, Lucia. If I had to guess, I’d say your foster parents.” She watched Lucia carefully. “Foster dad, maybe? Did he get handsy?” She was watching like an interrogator.

  “N-no,” Lucia said, shaking her head like a bad twitch. Then she realized maybe she didn’t deny the first thing hard enough because she was focused on the second. “They didn’t hurt me—”

  “And you’re fine,” Ms. Black said, still staring at her. “Totally, absolutely, completely fine. Goddammit, Lucia.” She hung her head for a second, putting a hand over her face before raising it back up again to look Lucia in the eye. It sparkled, just a little bit, a little moist. “Let me tell you a story.”

  “I—”

  “No, you just lie there and be quiet for a sec,” Ms. Black said. “When I was a teenager, I had a stepdad that I had to call ‘Dad.’” Her eyes narrowed. “His name was Rick, and I wanted to call him Rick, but I had to call him ‘Dad’ because my momma made me.

  “Well, one night not long after I started having to call Rick ‘Dad,’ he came into my bedroom in the middle of the night, and made me do shit that my real dad never did before he died.” Her jaw hardened. “When I told my mom about it, she slapped me. Called me an ungrateful brat. Said I was just trying to ruin her life so I wouldn’t have to call Rick ‘Dad’ anymore.” Ms. Black leaned in. “I never said a word to her about it again, and she never said anything to me about it either.”

  Lucia stared at her; Ms. Black’s eyes were a deep brown, and they stared down at her like two glowing orbs, near-black in their luster. A little droplet came sliding down out of one and dripped onto Lucia’s thin sheet. “I …” Lucia sniffed.

  “I lived with that son of a bitch for five years,” Ms. Black said, standing up straight. Now she looked commanding. “Five years of fucking hell. No one ought to go through that, not for a real dad or a fakeass motherfucker like Rick.” Her fingers twitched; she smelled of faint, stale cigarette smoke. She looked down at Lucia once more. “You know what I was thinking those five years? ‘I want to fucking die.’”

  Lucia just blinked. Because she didn’t know what else to say.

  “You know why I was thinking that?” Ms. Bl
ack leaned in again. “Because I couldn’t find any way out. I felt more trapped than I’ve ever felt in my life. My teachers couldn’t help. My mom didn’t give a shit. Was I supposed to call the cops, hope that they’d believe me? I was a stupid shit; I’d already been in trouble with the law by that point. I figured they’d lock me up, and Rick made plenty of suggestions that I was worthless and anyone I told about ‘our little secret’ wasn’t going to believe me, and hell if my mom hadn’t gone and proved his fucking lech ass right once already.” She shook her head, raw, bitter anger twisting her face. “I mean, if your momma won’t even fucking believe you … goddamn, I need a cigarette.” She shook her head again, then looked down at Lucia. “You know why I’m telling you all this?”

  Lucia felt frozen, paralyzed in the stare of some massive predator walking through. “I …” Guilt broke through, washing over her for all the horrible things she’d done, the things that had happened; they were her fault, weren’t they? She deserved the beating, she deserved the pain that Ray had given her, she deserved … all of it.

  Because it was her fault, what had happened to her parents.

  All her fault.

  “I can see what you’re doing right now.” Ms. Black looked thinly unamused, almost scornful. “I wonder if I looked like that to people when I was thinking like you are. Because what I was thinking when I was in your shoes? ‘It’s all my fault,’ even though I hadn’t done a goddamned thing to deserve Rick using me like his personal fucking cum catcher. And I’m telling you—and you won’t believe me—whatever you think you’ve done that’s awful in this world, it ain’t a reason for whoever has hurt you to have fucking hurt you. Being an asshole to people, making mistakes, whatever it is you think you’ve done … you’re not as big a girl as you think you are, and your foster parents—I fucking bet it was them; it was, wasn’t it?—they got no cause to do this to you, because you are a kid, and they said they’d protect and raise you when they took you in.” Ms. Black balled a fist. “Goddammit.”

  “I do deserve it,” Lucia said, in the softest whisper she’d ever managed.

  “No, you fucking don’t,” Ms. Black said, and she seemed to struggle for a moment, unballing her fist, like it was a real labor. “Whatever you think you’ve done … you probably didn’t do—”

  “I got my parents killed,” Lucia said, numbly.

  “No, you didn’t.” Ms. Black shook her head. “No, you didn’t.”

  “They were arguing because of me—”

  “I fucking argue with people all the time. Hell, I argue with everybody all the time. If I got my cell phone in my hand and I’m fucking arguing with somebody while I’m driving, that’s on me, not you, because the driver ought to know better.” She leaned down. “A parent—a real one, not a fakeass parent who’d abuse their kid—I don’t care about blood here either, I’m talking about somebody who really loves you, who really cares, who’s really gonna take care of you—they’re not gonna fucking do what Rick did to me, regardless of how guilty I am of bad shit in the past. And your foster parents … fucking steamy goddamned slimy shits—they got no cause to punish you for shit you did or didn’t do before they even met you, you hear me?”

  “But it’s like karma, isn’t it?” Lucia sniffled.

  “Their job is to parent you, not be fucking karma,” Ms. Black said, her big eyes glistening with moisture as she leaned down. “They’re supposed to take fucking care of you.” A tear slid down to her chin. “That’s what a parent does.”

  Lucia turned her face away. “I … I’m f—” There came the feel of almost a snap in her head, and cool relief rushed over her as though someone had poured water over her.

  “Don’t say you’re fine,” Ms. Black whispered. “You’re not fine. It ain’t gonna be fine.”

  She looked back to Ms. Black and tried to smile, that cool feeling resting over her. She didn’t need to cry anymore, she was just … numb. And Ms. Black was just trying to help, but … “I’ll be okay. Thank you for worrying about me.” Then she looked down.

  Ms. Black hovered over her still, like a tall tower. “I probably would have said the same thing when Rick was …” She sniffled. “It fucking sucks how long I called him ‘Dad,’ and believed I was the one that was wrong.” She rummaged in her purse, the things in it making shifting noises as they were moved. Eventually she found something, pulling out a bound black book. “I finally went searching for answers somewhere else—went searching for a father … somewhere else.” Lucia didn’t answer, and Ms. Black seemed to take that as invitation to keep talking anyway. “There’s help out there for those who ask … if you know how to ask in the right way.”

  Ms. Black took Lucia’s hand. Hers was big and rough and calloused, and she lifted Lucia’s and slipped that little black book into it. Lucia glanced down and saw the words HOLY BIBLE written on the spine.

  “I already have one of these,” Lucia said, trying to give it back to her.

  Ms. Black pushed it toward her, toward her chest. She was strong, and Lucia didn’t fight back. It thumped lightly against her breastbone, and Lucia stared at it. “Read it. It might just have the answer you need … at the moment you’re ready for it.”

  Lucia stared at her with blank eyes. “Okay.” She didn’t even look at it.

  “I know you’re barely hearing a word I’m saying—” Ms. Black blinked, another tear slipping down to her chin “—but you trust me on this one. If you read this when you’re looking for answers … you will find your answer, and your salvation. And it’s not going to be what you expect.” She pushed it at Lucia again, and the leather binding dug into her breastbone through the thin hospital gown. “Keep it. Trust me. I’ve been where you’ve been. Just … read it.” And she stared at Lucia, looking her right in the eyes, and nodding, like she could get her point across that way alone, now that all the words were spent.

  “Okay,” Lucia said again, because there really wasn’t anything else to say.

  Ms. Black’s strong hands relinquished their grip on her and she stood, sniffing and digging in her purse again. She pulled out a tissue and wiped her eyes with it, and started to make her way to the door.

  Lucia watched her go, kind of sauntering her way out. “Thank you.” She remembered her manners just before Ms. Black left.

  Ms. Black paused at the door, opening it back up. The sounds of the hospital corridor filtered in, the steady thrum of equipment and chatter, of life. “Don’t thank me until after you read it.” She sniffled. “But seriously … hang onto it, okay? If you don’t do anything else … hang onto it until you need it.”

  “Sure,” Lucia said. She would hang onto it. Ms. Black seemed nice enough, like she wanted to help. Keeping a simple book wouldn’t be anything other than being polite, on the level with hanging onto that shitty Mr. Potato Head that her uncle Andrew had given her once upon a time. Hell, she’d kept that thing until her teenage years just to be polite, her mom making sure it was displayed anytime Andrew came to town.

  Keeping a Bible wouldn’t be a big deal. She’d just put it on the shelf and leave it there. She stared up at Ms. Black, who nodded at her once, and then walked out.

  Lucia let out a little breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and then turned her face away. She let go of the Bible and it rested there on her breastbone, just sitting there, an uncomfortable weight, but she didn’t really have anywhere else to put it. Eventually she didn’t really notice it at all, and off she went to sleep.

  Day Three

  “… so, anyway, this old bastard, I think he’s ninety-four, and richer than shit, and this woman’s suing because they were lovers for a long time and—hell if I remember his name, but he runs some big company—anyway, in this lawsuit, all this—whaddyacallit? Deposition? All this shit comes out, basically,” Keith Drumlin said, the hose in hand, a hard spray nozzle on the tip now, gushing toward the sidewalk outside the old tire store on the square that shut down back in the eighties.

  “Mmm hmm,” Na
te McMinn grunted. He was a good listener.

  Keith stood there, letting the hose pressure press against his fingers, satisfying in its way, as he sluiced that cold water against the concrete. Nate was going to come along behind him, give it a good scrubbing. “So one of the things that sticks with me is that his girlfriend, who’s like forty, she says that all he wants every day—and this motherfucker is in his nineties, keep in mind—is steak and fucking. Every single day.”

  Nate grunted again, eyebrows rolling back in a display of respect. “That’s a man with his priorities straight.”

  “Damned right, that’s what I said.” Keith adjusted the nozzle to hit a bit of caked-on internal organ that had dried up on the sidewalk. It was getting harder to wash this shit off as time went by. It’d been three weeks since the Halloween massacre and everything was congealed now, sticky and impossible to fucking dislodge without the pressure spray the nozzle was giving him. It’d get cold in the night, then catch the sun’s rays all day. It stank to high heaven, and stuck to everything.

  Keith looked around, tracing his gaze around the square. They’d cleaned maybe—maybe—three quarters of it by now. As far as he could tell, he and Nate were the only ones working on it. Everyone else had fucked off and gone back to living their lives, avoiding the shit out of this place, letting the police barricades be their guides and just detouring around the mess.

  But not him and Nate. They came here every morning and worked at it faithfully, trying to clean a little more sidewalk, a little more road, to expunge a little more death and rotting tissue and blood and shit. Some of it wasn’t ever going to come up, not now, not since it had hardened every which way.