Death Blow (16 page)

The Sheriff hung up the phone. His contact at the Club had
called him immediately and told him the horrible news.

“He’s dead, Bill. That boy is dead.” The contact hadn’t know
what he was saying, who he was saying it to, and the Sheriff had done his best
to keep his cool. But now he was off the phone. He didn’t know what to do. He
didn’t feel tears yet, didn’t feel sadness, he only felt rage. Blind,
unadulterated rage for the motherfucker that had done this, that Barrett fellow
he’d heard about before. He gripped his hands, knuckles turning white. He’d
pay. Bill didn’t care what it meant about his job, about his life, about
anything—that fucker was going to pay.

Being a sheriff had its perks at a time like this. He had
Barrett’s address in no time and was flying down the highway with his sirens
on. He had his gun and his knife on his hip like he always did, though he
wasn’t thinking clearly enough to plan what he was going to do to him when he
got there. He just knew it was going to be merciless. “And you, too, Lyle,
you’re fucking finished,” Bill said out loud in his car. He cursed the day he’d
met her, ever become involved with her. She’d gotten the easy way out—death—and
he’d had to stick around here and watch it all unravel after that. In that
moment, he hated her.

He knew the turn was coming up, so he screeched to a halt on
the side of the road and parked his car. He’d travel the rest of the way by
foot, so as not to awake anyone with the sound of a car. He crept up the
driveway, gun drawn, just in case. The lights were off in the little one-story
home. Perfect. Soundlessly, he made it to the front door and pulled the
lock-picking kit he’d lifted from the evidence room, working it like a pro and
letting himself in. He shut the door behind him without a noise and slipped his
shoes off. Living room here, kitchen off to the right, so the bedroom must be
the door in the back left corner there. Slowly, so carefully, he made his way
along the wall until he reached the door, where he breathed a soft sigh of
relief. The door hadn’t been shut all the way, had been left just slightly
ajar, making his entry a lot easier. Hopefully the door wouldn’t creak, but
even if Barrett woke up now, Bill had him where he wanted him.

He pushed the door open, which gave way without so much as a
squeak, and leveled his gun at the bed. He took a few steps closer, took a
closer look, and nearly dropped his firearm. There, in bed, was not only
Barrett but, curled up in his arms, Lila.

Bill didn’t know what to do, now confused between his
overpowering rage for Barrett and his profound love for Lila. He couldn’t kill
him now, not with this revelation—but oh, he still wanted to, and wanted to
badly. He’d let this whole thing spin so far out of control. He should’ve
quelled it when he found out she was working at Club Malevolence. There were
so, so many things he should have done.

He dropped his gun. He couldn’t do it. He’d have to figure
out something else instead.

After she’d blacked out at Club Malevolence, Lila woke up in
her passenger seat, Barrett smacking her face lightly.
Jackson’s dead
was her first thought, and at that moment, no feelings came to her. She felt
cold, dead, numbed to the realization. Barrett’s eyes were wide and frantic,
like maybe Lila was either going to pass out again or, worse, she was going to
blame him. She wanted to blame him, but she didn’t, she couldn’t. He hadn’t set
out to kill Jackson, he just had. Those fights were so dangerous, no rules, no
boundaries, it was a wonder more guys didn’t die in them. These were all
thoughts bouncing around Lila’s head while they sat in her car. Then, suddenly,
it clicked.
Jackson’s dead
. She burst into awful, craggy sobs that
continued nonstop the whole drive back to Barrett’s place.

At his house, a numbness had set in. She couldn’t cry
anymore. She couldn’t feel anything. She didn’t want Barrett to touch her, so,
for awhile, they sat across from each other on the couch, not talking. Lila wasn’t
sure how to feel. Jackson had felt so much more important to her than he had
actually been. They’d known each other such a short time. But she’d experienced
a connection with him like she never had before and, now, she was certain,
she’d never experience again. Ultimately, she just couldn’t believe it: Jackson
was dead.

Barrett was heartbroken. He watched Lila with tears in his
eyes, while she withdrew and stared at the floor like a zombie for what seemed
like hours, but might have only been a few minutes. He didn’t even know what to
say for himself. How could he? He’d fought a fight, like he would any fight,
and he’d won, and won
big
. But it had come at a terrible cost.
Eventually Lila returned to the room and saw Barrett again, crying. Thankfully
that’s when their silence and their distance was broken. Around 4AM, they’d had
emotional, sorrowful sex, both of them crying a little, both clinging to each
other, both afraid to let the other one’s mouth get away, and then they’d
fallen asleep. Lila hadn’t dreamed.

Now, she was awake, and she wished it was all a dream, but
she knew it wasn’t. She put a hand on Barrett’s chest, warm and rising softly,
and examined his face. She couldn’t imagine why she wasn’t furious at,
disgusted by the man before her, whom she’d seen kill someone, in the flesh,
the night before. But she wasn’t. If anything, she knew that Barrett was going
to need her now more than ever, and vice versa. They only had each other. She
didn’t want to think about the money, though, that ominous black briefcase
sitting in the corner on the floor. That made her stomach cramp. She winced and
shook her head lightly, trying to shake out thoughts of the capital gain
Barrett had reaped from Jackson’s untimely death.

Barrett stirred, eyes fluttering open. They locked onto
Lila’s and held them, his brows furrowed. He swallowed hard, and she realized
he was hanging on her every reaction, her every shift. He wanted to know she
was okay, or that shewasn’t, or that she hated him, or that she didn’t. He
waited for her to say something, but what could she say? She kissed him
instead, slow, soft.

“I should go home,” she said quietly. He started.

“No. Why?” Panic tinged his voice.

“Because I need to shower, get some clean clothes. I think
maybe I need to be alone for a little while, too.” She said it all simply,
that’s what she was feeling now.

“I understand,” Barrett traced a finger along her cheekbone.
“Just please promise me you’ll come back later,” he begged her. She cupped his
face.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, “of course I’m coming back. I—“
she broke off. What she was going to finish the sentence with surprised her,
and she knew she couldn’t say it. “I’ll come back in a couple hours, swear.”
She kissed him again, then got out of bed. Barrett rubbed his eyes, sitting up.
Lila put her clothes on and crawled back over to him, not ready to leave
without a couple more kisses.

“Okay,” Barrett murmured finally. “Go. So you can come back
sooner.”

Lila walked out the front door and got in her car.

Her dad was sitting at the kitchen table when she got home.
She came through the back door and he looked at her like a ghost. His eyes were
bloodshot and he seemed haggard and afraid, and Lila noticed that his hands
were shaking.

“Dad,” she said, staying close to the door. “What’s wrong?”

Her dad cracked a bizarre smile and laughed. He brought his
shivering fingers up to his hair and ran them through a couple times. Abruptly
he began to cough, a body-shaking hack that startled Lila. “I thought you’d be
someone else,” he finally wheezed.

“Are you sick?” she asked.

“No,” he chuckled, “just sober.” That explained the
terrifying eyes, the tremors, the cough. Lila relaxed a little, but not much.

“Bet Hell’s cold tonight,” she muttered. Rick’s eyes snapped
to hers, staring at her with something like regret on his face.

“I been a real fuck-up, Lila.” It was the first simple,
honest thing her dad had said to her in years. She didn’t have a response. He
nodded slowly, studying the tabletop now. “Yep. I fucked up a lot of things,
for a lot of people, and I wish to God I hadn’t.” Lila’s stomach began to churn
again, the same feeling she’d had the last few days. He looked up at her,
pausing to see if she had anything to say, but she couldn’t muster up any
words, didn’t know what to respond to first, or how to proceed. “Well,” he
shrugged, “I guess that don’t matter now.”

“What are you talking about, Dad?” she finally sputtered.

He limped up from the table, grabbing his can and starting
towards her. Out of habit she countered his movements, walking further into the
kitchen, a leftover defense tactic from many nights spent avoiding him. He
didn’t care. He hobbled to the door, but when he got there, he turned to face
her again.

“I did love your mother, though. That’s the one thing I want
you to remember, Lila. I loved her.” He dropped his head. “I really did.” He
looked so small to Lila now, so beaten, so decayed. She felt a strong pang of
pity for him, and hated that she did. More than anything, she still didn’t know
what was going on. He put his hand on the doorknob. “Well, I’ll be damned if
I’m just going to sit here and wait for ‘em to come get me,” he said, more to
himself than anyone else.

“Who?” she asked, but he didn’t seem to hear her. He turned
the knob and opened the door. “Who, Dad? Who are you talking about?”

But he was already gone, clumping down the back stairs. She
sighed. She couldn’t deal with this right now, didn’t have the energy. She
needed a shower, and she needed to get back to Barrett.

A few minutes after Lila left, there was a knock on
Barrett’s front door. He groaned, heaving himself out of bed and slipping
athletic clothes on. Another knock.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” he called out. He padded to the
front door and looked out his peephole. The Sheriff was standing on his doorstep.
“Oh fuck,” Barrett said to himself. He hadn’t even thought about any legal
action. He reeled back a bit, unsure of what to do. He’d spoken, so the Sheriff
knew he was in here. But it was just the one Sheriff—surely if anything serious
were happening, there’d be more officers? Should he do something with the
briefcase? It was tucked away in his room, at least, but would that be enough?

“Barrett,” said the Sheriff from his side of the door,
“Don’t worry, son. I just need to talk to you.” If only that kid knew how hard
it was for Bill to act so cool, so kind. Well, he’d know soon enough.

Barrett took a deep breath and opened the door, not quite
inviting the Sheriff in yet. “What, what’s up, Bill?”

“Need to come inside,” the Sheriff said, taking a step towards
Barrett, who held his position for a moment, probing the Sheriff’s face for a
reason but unwilling to ask, before opening the door wider and stepping aside.
Bill blew past him, standing in the living room. “Sit,” he motioned Barrett to
the couches.

“What’s all this about?” Barrett asked.

“Sit. I’m going to tell you.” The Sheriff’s tone convinced
him. “Got anything like beer in your fridge?” he asked casually. Barrett
faltered.

“Um, yeah, I think so, want me to—“

“No, no, s’okay. I’ll get it. You just sit.”

Bill waltzed into the kitchen, grabbing two brews from the
fridge and breathing deeply. He hadn’t felt much yet, had gone into a zone
planning things that kept him relatively detached. He didn’t want to start
feeling things now. He cracked one, took a big sip, and headed back into the
living room.

“Here you are, son.” He tossed one to Barrett, who caught
it.

“Uh, thanks.” Barrett opened his. Bill understood the
confusion on his face.

“Where to begin, Barrett? Where to begin,” mused the
Sheriff. “D’you ever know I was married and supposed to have kids?” he asked
suddenly.

“No, I didn’t know that,” Barrett responded quietly. He
watched the Sheriff very closely, who behaved as if he were in some kind of
trance.

“Yep, yep. I’d just become Sheriff, she’d just moved here,
met her one night at the Dirty Pint, actually. Deborah. Kind of a wild girl,
but goddamn, did she have some fire.” Bill took another sip. “Anyway, fast
forward, we fall in love, get hitched, and I come to find out her wild side
runs a little deeper than I suspected. Turns out she’s pretty involved in this
mob scene ‘round town. When I found out, things were okay—she had a couple
debts but was already workin’ to pay ‘em back. She didn’t want to get me
involved though, on account a’ my job, so she promised me she’d take care of
it, and get outta there for good.” He paused, looking at his beer can. “S’tough
to be in love with a liar, Barrett,” Bill said quietly.

Barrett was rapt on the couch. He’d barely had any of his
beer. “I had one for a mother, so I sort of know what you’re talking about.”
The Sheriff looked at him hard, but softened after a moment, as if he’d turned
something over and saw Barrett differently.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s rough.” Suddenly the Sheriff looked at his
watch. “Shit, this is taking longer than I got. Okay, Bill, get to the
important stuff.” He laughed, somewhat manic, and Barrett got a touch worried.

“What’s going on?” he asked quietly.

“Oh, boy,” the Sheriff laughed, rubbing one of his eyebrows
with a finger. “I don’t even know how to tell you any of this! Kept it secret
for so long, ain’t sure what’s vital information, how to tell it.” He sat down
on the couch with a big sigh, holding his beer between his knees and breathing
deeply again. “It don’t sound real, out loud. None of it sounds real,” he
murmured. Barrett slid a little closer to him.

“What are you trying to tell me, Bill?” he asked.

“She was pregnant—little twin babies, we’d only just found
out—when they came for her. Owed ‘em too much, they said, only way out. So they
took her, and the only time I saw her after that was out in public, ‘cross a
crowded room, that sorta thing. Rick had wanted her, and he got her. We told
the town it was an affair, kids were Rick’s. Got served my divorce papers by
one their baldheaded lackeys in sunglasses.”

“Who’s they?” Barrett asked. The Sheriff turned like he’d
just realized someone else was in the room, staring at Barrett with wide,
vacant eyes.

“Why, the syndicate, Barrett—Lyle Moran and the syndicate.”
Barrett nearly swallowed his tongue. The Sheriff took a deep swig of his beer.
“They gave me a long list of requirements, too. I couldn’t tell nobody why Deb
really left me, couldn’t say anything about the undergrounds, and couldn’t ever,
ever reach out to my children—or they’d kill ‘em. If the syndicate came under
investigation, they’d kill my children. If I lost or resigned from my job,
they’d kill my children. Lots a’ things I couldn’t do. Lots of possibilities to
send my children to their deaths.”

Barrett’s mouth was dry, and no amount of beer could wet it.
He kept trying to swallow, and it kept getting lodged in his throat, a big wad
of shock and disbelief and fear. He’d known the syndicate wasn’t exactly legal,
but he’d never dreamed it ran this dirty.

“How they got him, I had to piece together from a couple
sources. Seems Rick was on his way up the ladder when he got Deb, and that was
the last good thing that happened to him. Racked up too many of his own debts
from drinking and gambling, and needed to give ‘em something for payoff. Kids’d
just been born then—a beautiful baby girl and a strong baby boy—and Rick, that
weasel, somehow worked it out so that he got a little of everything. They
weren’t his anyway, so I doubt he cared, but I’ll never know how she lived with
herself.”

“What’d he give them?” Barrett asked, waiting in horror.

“Gave ‘em the boy. Turned out Lyle was shootin’ blanks,
serves him right, but he wanted a boy more than anything—“

“Wait, Lyle?” Barrett’s jaw nearly hit the floor. “Lyle took
the baby boy? Meaning—“

“Jackson, yep.” The Sheriff held Barrett’s eyes with his
own. There was an unnatural sadness to watching the agony cross Barrett’s face
when Bill confessed the identity of his son. “Jackson was my son and—and
Barrett,“ he faltered. “Barrett, Lila is my daughter. Deborah, their mother,
was my wife. Jackson and Lila are my children.”

Barrett dropped his beer can, amber foam spilling out all
over the floor.

“No,” Barrett said. “No,” he stood up, hardly noticing the
beer he walked through as he began to pace. “No that’s not—it isn’t possible,
Bill. That’s—“ He looked at the Sheriff with an awful expression, something
wounded and sick and appalled. “That can’t be true.” The Sheriff just looked
back at him, silent. “It can’t be. Tell me it’s not true.” Bill dropped his
head and looked at the ground.

With a loud bang, Barrett slammed his fist into the drywall.
It gave a bit, creating a hand-sized crater in his living room and nearly
breaking Barrett’s hand. The Sheriff leapt to his feet, rushing to Barrett and
grabbing him by the shoulders.