Exposure (4 page)

He was trash—or so it was commonly agreed. That Donnelly kid's got bad blood. Elvis had lost count of how many times he'd heard that opinion expressed in one way or another when he was growing up. Enough times for him to try his damnedest to give the rumors some teeth the first seventeen years of his life. Hell, if this little one stop-signal town wanted disreputable, he'd give them disreputable like they'd never seen.

Which, given his mother's occupation, took a bit of doing. Elvis didn't know who his father was, but his mom . . . ? Well, Nadine Donnelly was Port Flannery's most notorious round-heeled working girl.

Wasn't a citizen around didn't know about her—and God knew he had to go the extra distance to create more scandal than she'd already provided.

It was from her that he'd gotten his coloring—his thick black hair, his brilliant blue eyes. She was also the bestower of a name he'd been forced to defend with his fists from the time he was about eight years old until he'd finally gained his full growth—and then it wasn't as if people had suddenly stopped snickering over it. They'd simply began exerting a little care to do their sniggering behind his back instead of to his face, because everybody knew that Elvis Donnelly would be more than happy to throw the first punch.

The matter of his paternity was a subject of much interest and even more speculation to the islanders. Theories ran rampant. As in any small town, the denizens of Port Flannery loved their gossip, and the sheer range of possibilities in this instance was deliciously lacking in limits. There was only one fly in the ointment; unfortunately it was a beaut. Elvis Donnelly was big, very big, and he'd showed every evidence early on of his ultimate height and muscularity. Who the hell could he have inherited these from?

His size did nothing to spare him from hearing the conjectures—in the general store, at Ruby's Cafe, even on the streets in the wake of people's passings. Wasn 't no one around these parts could come close to matching that boy for size, they said, few even bothering to whisper, and his mama's only average-tall. So who the hell can his daddy be? It was a conundrum that seemed to occupy entire blocks of more than one person's free time.

Like many a sparsely populated, self-sufficient society, Flannery Island was class conscious and hierarchical, so Elvis didn't have many friends growing up. And those he did have were on the same lower stratum of the socioeco-nomic chain as he and by popular acclaim were considered trash also.

Except for Sam Mackey.

It was an odd pairing: the rebellious, bound-for-hell son of a prostitute and the Midas-golden only son of one of Port Flannery"s most respectable families. But the two boys met on the first day of kindergarten, hit it off, and as far as they were concerned, that was that. It didn't matter what the adults thought about it. They'd been inseparable ever after.

It was to Sam that Elvis inevitably went when he found himself locked out of his own house because his mother was "entertaining." Enraged, hurting, he'd climb the tree in the Mackeys' back yard and let himself into Sam's room. The welcome he found there was the only outlet he could count on for the myriad emotions that roiled inside him. Dangerous as a pressure cooker with no safety valve, sometimes Elvis simply holed up for the night, brooding and planning trouble. Sam smuggled him food, talked to him, allowed him to let off steam, and tried to discourage the most reckless of his plans. When Elvis' pain drove him out looking for trouble anyway, Sam generally went along to exert what damage control he could.

And so it was the night Sheriff John Bragston changed the direction Elvis' life was taking.

"C'mon, Elvis; let's go back to my place," Sam suggested, shoving his hands into his jacket's pockets.

He could see his every breath form an icy, vaporous cloud in front of his face, and stamped his feet in place to keep the circulation going. "This is crazy, man," he grumbled. "I'm freezing my ass off here."

He was sixteen years old. Granted there weren't many things to do on the island on a Friday night. But there were at least half a dozen warmer things than watching his friend impatiently chuck aside half the stuff in the jumble that comprised the Donnelly tool shed. Losing patience, he finally growled, "What the hell you lookin' for, anyway?"

"This." Elvis straightened up, hefting a sledgehammer into view.

Sam's heart sank. "Oh, shit, Elvis, what're you gonna do with that?"

"Destroy the fucker's car."

"Nooo." But he could see he was wasting his breath. There was blind determination on Elvis' face and Sam swore roundly. "Dammit, man, trust me on this one," he urged. "This is not a good idea. You don't wanna do this." Ramming his fingers through his blond hair, he followed Elvis out of the tool shed and around the corner of the Donnelly house to where Lee Overmyer had parked his distinctive orange station wagon out of sight of anyone driving past on Emery Road.

Sam grabbed Elvis by the arm and said with quiet earnestness, "Bragston's gonna throw your ass in jail for this, E. Don't do it."

Elvis' blue eyes burned like gas flames as he stared down at his friend. "He's got a nice wife and three kids, Sam, and he's in there screwing my mother," he said furiously. "You can bet that tonight he's tcllin' liei, 'Baby, you're the greatest.' " Lips stiff, he added flatly, "Tomorrow he'll guffaw with his buddies and call her a whore." Which was what she was—he knew that's what she was. But still . . .

"It's either this or kneecap the son of a bitch," he said honestly.

"Shit." Sam expelled the breath he'd sucked in deep. He let go of his friend's arm. "Destroy the fucker's car," he said in resignation.

Elvis swung the hammer at the headlights, feeling a rush of savage gratification as, one after the other, they exploded in a hail of noise and shattered glass. He could hear the sudden scramble of feet hitting the floor and raised voices inside his house, but he knew that without backup Overmyer wouldn't come out to confront him. He had six inches and forty pounds on the older man easily, not to mention that he'd relish the opportunity to really mix it up.

Systematically, Elvis' hammer took out all of the glass in the vehicle; then he started in on the back fender.

Sheriff Bragston must have been in the neighborhood when the dispatcher forwarded Overmyer's complaint, because in record time lights from the department's car were sweeping the yard as it pulled off the country road into the drive. Gravel crunched beneath its tires and glowing red lights swirled from its roof, illuminating then retreating from the dingy white clapboard siding of Elvis' house.

Breathing heavily, Elvis dropped his arm to his side and turned to look at Sam who was sitting in the shadows on a tree stump a short distance away. The only distinct feature he could make out was his friend's cigarette glowing red as Sam drew on it. "You'd better take off," he advised him. They both heard the front screen door bang against the side of the house as Lee Overmyer rushed out to greet the sheriff.

Sam flicked the butt into the yard. "Forget it," he said. "I'm stayin' right here."

"No, Sam. You're gonna get into trouble, too, and you didn't do anything to deserve it."

"Big deal; so what else is new? You'll tell him I wasn't involved just like you always do, and eventually he'll let me go." Sam shrugged and gazed up at Elvis. "Like he always does." He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned into the weak pool of illumination that was thrown out by the bulb over the garage door. Tucking his hands into his armpits and slapping his elbows against his side, he hunched his neck into his flipped-up collar. "Jesus, it's cold out here."

"I mean it, Sam; take off," Elvis insisted urgently. "Bragston's been pretty good about you always being there when someone calls in a complaint about me. But I think some of the folks in my neck of the woods have been givin' him some grief lately about always lettin' the rich kid go while bustin' my penniless ass, and if the day ever comes when he gets tired of hearing it, he could make some serious trouble for you. Do us both a favor and get out of here. Please?"

Because Sam could see it was important to Elvis, he climbed to his feet. "Yeah, all right; I'm goin'.

I'll see you tomorrow, though, huh?"

"Yeah."

"If you're not in jail, that is." Sam gave him a cocky smile. "Well, hey, if you are, I suppose I can always bake you a cake."

Elvis looked at the mess he'd made of Overmyer's car. Part of him was real pleased with the havoc he'd wrought. But there was another part that was ashamed, and he almost felt like crying. Deliberately he looked away, doggedly turning his attention back to his friend. "Good idea," he said with forced cockiness. "Be sure to include the file."

"You got it, babe." Sam hesitated a moment, then sauntered off into the woods behind the house, melting into the darkness just as Nadine Donnelly's customer and the sheriff rounded the comer.

Propping his hip against the front fender of the car, Elvis leaned over to place the sledgehammer, head down, on the ground, its handle against the car bumper. Then he straightened and clasped his arms defensively across his chest as he watched the two men advance.

"There he is," Overmyer snarled. His jaw dropped open when he saw the damage to his car, and he turned the air blue with his obscenities. "Arrest him," he ultimately demanded, shaking with rage.

"I want the little bastard thrown in jail."

John Bragston eyed the "little" bastard. Mammoth within the play of moonlight and shadows that fell across his face and torso, Elvis stared back at him without expression, but there was no disguising the turmoil in his neon blue eyes. And as it always did, that suppressed emotion tugged at something in Bragston.

How the hell would he feel, he wondered, not for the first time, if it were his mother locking him out of the house while she serviced some self-important, pompous son of a bitch? It was difficult for boys that age to even acknowledge the possibility that their mothers might be sexual beings, never mind having the knowledge that yours was the town hooker thrust in your face night after night.

On the other hand, Elvis had destroyed some property here tonight and his acting out couldn't be allowed to escalate this way.

Damn it to hell. What a mess.

He turned to Overmyer. "Well, I can arrest him, all right," he agreed easily. He pulled his handcuffs from his belt and approached Elvis, who without argument stuck his hands out. Starting to put them on, the sheriff paused to look back at Overmyer. " 'Course, you might want to consider what Margaret's going to say," he advised. "She might have a few choice questions for you once she hears where your car was parked when Donnelly here took the hammer to it." He snapped the cuffs over Elvis' wrists. Then turning back to Overmyer, he said amiably, "But, hey, I'm sure you'll think of somethin' plausible to tell her."

Overmyer had snapped upright and was regarding him in alarm. "You can't tell Margaret where the car was parked!" he protested.

"I don't aim to," Bragston retorted calmly. "But use your head, Lee. Pressing charges means going down to the station and filling out a report. There are people at the station, and just so you understand this right up front, when it comes to my reports I give special consideration to no man. It either gets filled out entirely or it doesn't get filled out at all."

He could almost see the wheels turning in the other man's head. Hell, I can get away with it, Overmyer was thinking. Then, Shit, no, I'll never get away with it.

"Give it careful consideration," Bragston advised, "because you're going to be stuck with the results of whatever you decide. It's a small island." He disguised his impatience. Hell in a wheelbarrow, Lee was a native, and anyone who had lived here his entire life shouldn't have to be reminded of the obvious. Then again, Overmyer hadn't exactly ever been known for his mental wizardry. The sheriff shrugged. "Hell, man," he said, "you know as well as I do, there are damn few secrets on Flannery. Word tends to get around."

Overmyer gave Elvis a bitter look. "Yeah, and I suppose in this case it's pretty much guaranteed to."

The look Elvis returned didn't contain cocky triumph. Instead, it was filled with contempt. "Don't look at me, you scum sucker," he snarled. "Mrs. Overmyer's always been real nice to me." And people like that weren't so thick on the ground he could afford to deliberately hurt one. "She ain't gonna hear nothin' 'bout this from me."

"Well, there you go," Bragston said cheerfully. "Maybe no one down at the station will say anything either." He jerked his head at Elvis. "Let's go, son."

Elvis straightened away from the car hood and followed Bragston over to the department vehicle. He'd already climbed into the back seat when Overmyer blew out a gusty sigh of disgust and said, "Let him go."

"It's probably for the best," the sheriff agreed. "And, Lee, the kid here will pay whatever damages your insurance deductible doesn't cover."

"The hell you say." Elvis snapped to attention. The look he gave the sheriff was incredulous. "If no charges are gonna be pressed against me, why the hell should I pay a dime to this clown?"

Sheriff Bragston looked him coolly in the eye. "Because it's the right thing to do," he said, and that stopped Elvis in his tracks. No one had ever expected him to do the right thing before; usually their expectations were just the opposite.

"I don't have a job," he muttered, sulky because it was yet another sore subject. He had tried to get after-school or weekend work, but no one wanted to take a chance on hiring him. He was poor white trash. Glaring at the sheriff as if the dearth of employment opportunities were the man's fault, he held out his hands for Bragston to remove the cuffs, but the sheriff simply slammed the car door, sealing him inside.

"Hey!"

"You've got a job," Bragston said, climbing into the driver's seat and firing up the ignition. "Starting as of now, you're working for me." He twisted around to pin Elvis in place with the sternness of his gaze. "And if you think this is charity work I'm offering here, kid, then think again, 'cause it ain't. I expect an hour's work for an hour's pay, and if you can't hack it, boy, your narrow butt's out the door and I'll get someone who can."

John Bragston was as good as his word and he became a major influence in Elvis' life. Gruff and blunt-spoken, he was nevertheless the first adult male to give Elvis attention that was exacting and yet positive. When school report cards were handed out shortly after Elvis started working at the police station, the sheriff demanded to see his and having done so said Elvis could do a helluva lot better.

Elvis did.

He wanted to know Elvis' plans for the future. "So what are you gonna do when you graduate?" he asked at the end of Elvis' junior year.

Elvis shrugged. "Blow this burg."

"And do what?"

"Huh?"

"Dammit, son, think ahead a little," Bragston advised impatiently. "It's not enough simply to say you're gonna blow the island. You've got to have some sort of plan. Where you gonna go once you hit the mainland, boy? How you going to make a living?" He fixed him with a fierce eye. "You just going to take off for Seattle or another big city a little further away with—what?—a couple hundred dollars in your pocket? I can guarantee that'll have you peddling your ass for the rent money in about two weeks' time."

"So, maybe I'll be a cop, like you," Elvis retorted, watching the older man carefully to see if he'd laugh in his face.

Bragston merely nodded. "You'd make a good one," he said matter-of-factly. "But to get anywhere in law enforcement these days you need college. And to afford that, you might have to stay on the island for a few extra years."

Elvis did. He commuted off-island four years, and when he graduated Sam Mackey and John Bragston were the only ones there to see him. His mother said she'd come, but she didn't arrive until after the ceremony was over.

He then followed through on his oft-stated threat to leave Port Flannery behind. Securing a job with the Seattle Police department, he worked his way slowly up the ranks until a car bomb meant for a witness he was protecting put an abrupt end to his career.

Well, perhaps that wasn't strictly true. After completing nearly a year of physical therapy he could have gone back to the SPD at a desk job. Instead he opted to return to the island of his birth.

When the chips were down, he supposed, it was still the only place he'd ever really considered home.