Tell No One

by Taylor Sissel, Barbara

He started to speak, to wheedle or argue, Caroline didn’t know. “I have to go,” she said, and she ended the call before he could respond.

  Her mother was at the dining table leafing through a photo album when Caroline came home. “You were such a happy little girl,” she said. “Look at you in this picture. You were three. We were in Galveston. You loved the beach, dirty as it was. I swear I can almost hear you giggling.”

  Caroline bent over her mom’s shoulder, peering at the image of her child self. She was in her bathing suit, sitting upright on her dad’s shoulders. He was holding her ankles. She had her hands knotted under his chin. She’d probably been choking him, but they were both laughing, eyes scrunched, mouths open. It opened an old ache inside her. “I wished for a long time that I’d been born a boy,” she said.

  Her mother looked up sharply.

  “I thought at least then Dad would have had the son he wanted.”

  The line between her mother’s eyebrows deepened. A complication of emotions troubled her expression. “Your dad wanted you—”

  “I know. I didn’t mean—it’s just he would have been so thrilled if he’d had a son, you know. A kid who could compete, be an athlete, a real football player. That’s why he took to Harris. Maybe Harris was even the draw with Julia.”

  “What has brought this on? Lanie? Is she the one feeding you this nonsense?”

  “No, Lanie would never—”

  “I’m sad that she’s dying, but I hate how she’s got you mixed up in this wild-goose chase after your dad, and now she’s filling your head with these absurd ideas. No one, no other child, could ever replace you in your dad’s heart, Caro. Certainly not Harris Fenton.”

  “Lanie’s never said Dad didn’t want me or anything close—”

  “I’ve told you before: He left me and our marriage. He didn’t leave you. He was there, too, when Lanie took you, as much as he could be.”

  “I know. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just saying it’s not fair to blame Aunt Lanie for how I feel.”

  Her mother was trembling when she closed the photo album cover. “No other child could have ever replaced you in my heart either, Caro.”

  Her mother’s eyes when she looked up at Caroline were glazed with tears. The sight took Caroline aback. Her mother seldom allowed herself to appear vulnerable.

  “I love you more than I have ever loved anyone, including your dad, and I loved him irrevocably. He broke my heart.”

  “Oh, Mom, I know. I’m so sorry for what he did, how he was—is.” Caroline sat abruptly in the adjacent chair; she took her mother’s hand. “I wanted him to be proud of me. I wanted his attention, but I always felt I could never measure up.”

  “You think he didn’t see—that he didn’t know what you were doing? The time you tried to pass yourself off as a boy at the football tryouts. Do you remember?” Her mom broke off, half smiling, swiping at her eyes.

  Caroline laughed. “It was dumb. He was embarrassed.”

  “Yes, and also touched to his core. He took you on his scouting trips a lot more often after that.”

  “I loved that he included me.”

  “Your dad didn’t think women had any place on the football field, but he thought you had an eye for spotting talent.”

  A beat.

  “Harris quit playing football,” Caroline said.

  “Really?”

  “Kip Penny told me. Kip isn’t a ghost, Mom. We had coffee this morning at Neilson’s. Kip saw Harris play back when he was in middle school or junior high, and he was every bit as talented as Dad said. But he quit and started playing baseball instead.”

  “Is there a reason you’re telling me this? Does Kip know where your dad is?”

  “No, but if Kip’s right, Dad may not be a ghost, either, except in the sense that, like you have said, he may not want to be found.” Caroline wanted her mother to see it.

  She waved her hands. “If you’re going to start in again with all that business about your dad taking money—some recruiting scheme—”

  “It’s true. Kip filled me in on all the details.”

  “What details?” It was a challenge.

  Caroline repeated the gist of her conversation with Kip for the second time that day, omitting, as she had in her recounting to Lanie, any mention that Caroline’s nosing around in Omaha might have stirred up one or more sleeping dogs. Her mother didn’t need the worry of it any more than her aunt Lanie. Caroline wanted badly to believe she and Kip were being overly dramatic to suspect that Jace or Brick’s uncle or any one of the boosters from back then would pursue her in an attempt to stop her or silence her.

  “Kip doesn’t intend to publish the story now, does he?” Her mother sat with her spine flattened to the back of the chair, her arms crossed.

  “I don’t think so. He feels he doesn’t have enough hard evidence to back it up.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be right. Your father isn’t here to defend himself.”

  “Are you defending him?”

  “Maybe it’s hard for you to believe I would have any kind feelings toward him, but we did have many good years together. I knew him from the first day we attended the same kindergarten, and one thing I know is that those boys were everything to him. I know he believed in what he was doing. He found kids—and you know this, too—so many of them from the poorest families, families that could never have afforded to send their sons to college—but your dad found a way for it to happen. He always knew a coach, a college, where a particular athlete’s skills and personality would fit in—you know as well as I do it isn’t all about athleticism. A boy has to have discipline, a work ethic, the grades—integrity, for heaven’s sake—” She broke off.

  Caroline waited.

  “It wasn’t about making money off those kids, Caro. What you’re saying your dad did—that’s not who he is.”

  “No, but don’t you see? The very fact we know that about him makes it even more plausible that if he got himself involved, however briefly, in this particular case with Tillman, and then changed his mind—” Caroline broke off before she could say more and cause her mother the very concern she had moments ago been determined to keep from her.

  “You’re saying he knows where the bodies are buried.”

  Caroline held her mom’s gaze, jaws solidly clenched.

  “Tell me, Caro. I can see you’re worried.”

  She sighed, and pushing her hair behind her ears, she said, “According to Kip, the men who participated were local businessmen and city politicians, in addition to the coaching staff. It’s possible money changed hands via illegal wire transfers.”

  “Bank fraud, essentially.” Of course her mom got it right away. Her professional career was in banking; plus she was no one’s dummy.

  “Yeah. I doubt they wanted publicity about their dirty dealing then any more than they do now.”

  “Well, it’s funny, don’t you think, and I don’t mean ha-ha funny, that right when a reporter is going to alert the authorities, your dad, the key informer, so to speak, up and disappears. I’m surprised Kip is still around to tell the tale.”

  “I know, but he didn’t indicate he had any concern about himself—”

  A sound came.

  “I think that’s my phone,” Caroline said. “I’ll make us some lunch,” she called over her shoulder on her way to the kitchen. She got her phone from her purse. She recognized the number. It belonged to Jace Kelly. Her hello was wary. Her pulse faltered.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  “So talk,” she said with a boldness she didn’t feel.

  “Not on the phone. I’m here, in Houston, meeting with the parents of one of the recruits I saw down here a couple of weeks ago. Remember, I told you I’d recently been to Houston when you were in Omaha.”

  Had he? She guessed it was possible, but she was drawing a blank.

  “Can we meet?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” A low hum of warning buzzed in her
ears. She thought of Kip’s advice that she should involve the police. She thought of her suspicion that despite Jace’s denial, despite her watching him get into a cream-colored sedan back in Omaha, he’d somehow been the driver of the big, dark SUV that had run her off the road. Now he was here? Was he setting her up?

  “Please? It can be anywhere, anytime.” He was openly pleading.

  “There’s a park down the street from my mom’s,” she said, and she gave him directions. It was always crowded on Saturday afternoons. What could he do to her in a park in broad daylight that was overrun with parents and their kids? “Can you be there by two o’clock?”

  14

  Harris—Saturday, January 13

  It’s Gee, isn’t it? He’s the student you have the issue with.”

  Harris doesn’t answer his mother. They are still at the front door, and Harris has angled his gaze to one of the sidelights that bracket it. Beyond the porch he can see Mackie sitting in his squad car, phone to his ear. Who’s he talking to? Why isn’t he leaving? Backup. He’s calling for backup. Help to take Harris down, take him into custody. A cold wash of panic sours Harris’s mouth, clouds his brain.

  “Answer me.” His mother’s demand cleaves his skull. “I talked with Gee’s girlfriend last week. Amber’s concerned about him too.”

  Harris jerks his gaze to his mom.

  “I found her crying in the restroom. She wouldn’t tell me what was troubling her other than she was worried about her boyfriend. She and Gee have been going together for a while, haven’t they? Several months, anyway. I thought maybe she was pregnant, but now—Captain Mackie was talking about drugs—”

  “Did you ask Amber what was wrong?”

  “Of course I asked her. I told you she wouldn’t say. Harris, what is going on?”

  “I’ll handle it.” He passes his mom, heading for the stairs, taking them two at a time. It might appear that Kyle and Gee are no longer close, but act or not, Kyle’s girlfriend, Samantha, and Gee’s girlfriend, Amber, are definitely best friends, and best friends tell each other everything. Whatever the hell is breaking Amber’s heart about Gee, she’s bound to have told Sam, who would then tell Kyle. She’s probably already told him. They had plans to go to the basketball game last night. Whatever the problem is, Harris has a bad feeling it’s got nothing to do with an accidental pregnancy and everything to do with Gee and his dope dealing—and Harris.

  Upstairs, he shoves his feet into his Nikes and then pauses, letting his gaze drift. Is he overreacting, being paranoid? But no. He can’t let it go. He’s got to see Kyle. One look at his son’s face, and Harris will know. He grabs his keys, his cell phone, heads back downstairs.

  His mom, having divined his intention, is waiting by the back door. “Where are you going? We need to talk.”

  “Later.” He attempts to brush by her.

  She grips his arm. “No, Harris, don’t go off like this, in a state. Nothing good can come of it. Tell me what you’re planning.” She locks his gaze. “We can work it out, whatever this is about—together.”

  He takes her hand gently from his arm. “You can’t help me, Ma. Not this time.”

  Calling his name, she follows him from the house onto the driveway, halting her steps when she realizes she can’t stop him. He backs onto the concrete apron and heads down the narrow lane, watching her small, agitated figure recede in the rearview, and he’s sick to be the cause of her distress. He has chafed against it in the past—her single-minded focus on him, on his happiness and safety, even though he knows the logic behind it. He feels the same compulsion toward his own kids. A mama lion has got nothing on him. He knows, knows in his bones, in the sockets of his eyes, the roots of his teeth, he’d kill anyone who threatened his kids’ lives. So he gets why his mom is so hell bent, especially given those years spent with his birth father. But in this case, understanding brings him no relief. Only more remorse, more guilt. It has all gone wrong, so wrong he wonders if he’ll ever be able to make it right.

  Reaching the highway a half mile from the house, he brakes. Heading east would take him to Greeley. From there he could go north, up through Waco to Fort Worth. Farther. He could keep driving, leave the whole goddamn mess, the entire state, behind. Going west will take him into Wyatt, to his house and Kyle and whatever it is Kyle has heard about Harris from Sam. Rather than get blindsided, Harris could find Gee, but what are the odds Gee will tell him what Amber was crying about in the restroom last week? Probably nil.

  He tugs his phone from his pocket. There are no calls except from Connor, who has left a message. “Dad, can you come home? Mom’s pretty upset, and Kyle won’t talk.”

  The sound of his voice, small and worried, pierces Harris’s heart.

  He tosses his cell phone into the passenger seat and turns right toward town—Zeke’s house is on the way. It’s risky, seeing him again. While Harris has told Zeke most everything, the old man doesn’t know the worst of it—that Harris has been buying dope off Gee. It’ll kill Zeke if he finds out. But Harris has got to know if he’s who tipped the cops about Gee. Harris has to let Zeke know he’s playing with fire, that Gee is much more than your average hormone-amped, stressed-out teenager. He’s twisted up inside, broken in some way.

  He’s a maniac.

  Psycho.

  The term stands up in Harris’s brain. He thinks of how he’s used the label in the past, or heard it used, mostly in reference to serial killers, school shooters, and suicide bombers. He’s never thought of Gee in those terms before, but the markers for it are there, aren’t they?

  One in one hundred children born today are psychopathic.

  Harris recalls the statistic his mother quoted a while back when they were talking about a recent school shooting. It shocked him. That many? he said to her. She listed the hallmarks: lack of empathy and remorse; emotional detachment; bullying; ignoring rules; blaming others; chronic, long-term lying—

  Stealing. Not occasionally, but compulsively.

  On the flip side, these people are charmers and manipulators. Despite the popular perception, a psychopath isn’t always a killer. They don’t always murder or have a history of abusing animals. They can be high functioning and successful. The star football player on your local high school team, for instance. The one who’s got everybody fooled.

  Except Harris.

  But who is he kidding?

  Glancing in the rearview mirror, he almost doesn’t recognize the guy whose image is reflected there. His eyes are dark circled and sunken. He hasn’t shaved, and the silver-flecked black stubble of his beard shadows his cheeks and jaw. He looks like shit, and he’s starting to feel pretty rough too. It comes to him with a stomach-churning jolt that he’s left the second of the two fentanyl patches Zeke gave him last night under the mattress at his mom’s house. She could find it. No, she’ll never look. What if she does? The dialogue shifts uneasily through his brain. Where’s he going to get more—something, fentanyl, anything? That’s the question.

  Zeke won’t give him any, not this soon.

  Harris thinks about turning around, going back to his mother’s, but looking again at the rearview, his gaze homes in on a car, the plain, dark-colored sedan several car lengths behind him. It’s been there awhile, hasn’t it? Keeping an even distance. A frisson of unease slips up his spine. Could be a cop—Mackie or some other law officer at the wheel. Maybe I’m losing it, imagining things.

  The weather has warmed up by the time Harris arrives at Zeke’s. It’s almost seventy. The old man says he’s been out on his deck, repotting some cactus. He offers Harris a Coke when they pass through the kitchen on their way outside.

  Harris accepts the drink, although he wants—needs—something stronger.

  “Didn’t figure I’d see you this morning.” Zeke scrapes red-tinged leaves from a nearby towering maple off a padded deck chair. There’s an edge in his voice, and Harris knows he’s expecting to be hit up for painkillers and that he’ll say no. Harris might have to ask, though.
What the hell. It’s not like he’s got any pride left.

  He sits down across from Zeke at the round patio table. A corner of the deck is littered with sacks of potting soil, a collection of clay pots, and several wickedly spined plants. Harris recognizes the round shape of a good-size golden barrel cactus. He thinks some of the others with leaves like knife blades are agaves or possibly aloes. He’s not into gardening. That’s Holly’s thing.

  “You look like hell.” Zeke makes the comment not looking at Harris.

  “I got a visit from the cops this morning, the police captain. Clint Mackie. You know him?”

  “We’ve met a few times. What was he doing at your house?”

  Harris doesn’t correct Zeke’s misapprehension. “Did you tip the cops that Gee took your ring?”

  “Huh?” Zeke looks totally at sea.

  “There was another break-in last night, Todd Sullivan’s house. Do you know Todd? Junior at Wyatt High? Nice family. They were out to dinner when it happened. Same MO as all the other robberies. No busted doors or windows. No sign or clue who did it. But this morning, according to Mackie, somebody who wouldn’t give their name called the Wyatt police and said Gee was responsible. This caller said Gee’s also pedaling dope at Wyatt High. Was it you?”

  “No! I told you I’d leave it to you, what should happen.” The old man is annoyed, and confused in a way that seems genuine.

  “You’re pissed Gee was here.” Harris is insistent. “In your house—”

  “Okay, but it’s hearsay. Cops don’t give a damn about hearsay. They want proof.”

  Harris thinks a moment. It’s true what Zeke says. Even Harris doesn’t have physical proof it was Gee who took Zeke’s ring. It’s not as if he saw the kid do it. He’s going on gut instinct. “You know what’s on the line, right? It’s not just Gee’s life—assuming it’s him—that’s going to get screwed up. It’s mine, too, and Kyle’s.”

  “Gee’s pedaling dope?”

  Harris doesn’t answer.

  “You buying it off him?”

  The moment waits, but Harris is too long in his denial, and the old man’s gaze sharpens with knowing, the taint of disgust. “You are, aren’t you? That’s why you won’t report him for the robberies. He’s got you over a barrel, doesn’t he?”