Indelible (32 page)

“Uh . . .” He looked back at his mother's car, wondering what she must have been thinking. “No, ma'am. I came to talk to you about Luke.”

She clasped her housedress together with a gnarled old hand. He walked closer and he could see her rheumy eyes were having trouble focusing.

As if she knew what he was thinking, she said, “I got the cataracts.”

Her accent was so heavy that he had trouble understanding her. “I'm sorry.”

“Not your fault, is it?” she asked, no menace in her tone. “Come on in,” she said. “Mind that first step. My grandson was gonna fix it for me, but then, well, I guess you know what happened.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Jeffrey said, testing the bottom step. The cinder block shifted, and he could see where rain runoff from the trailer had eroded the soil underneath. He kicked some dirt and stones under it,
making it a bit more level, before following her into the trailer.

“Not much,” the old woman said, the understatement of the century. The place was a pigsty, the narrow design making it seem like the walls were closing in. More newspapers and magazines were piled around the room, and Jeffrey wondered what she was doing holding on to all this stuff.

“My late husband was quite the reader.” She indicated the piles of magazines. “Couldn't bear to part with his things when he passed.” She added, “The emphysema got him. Don't smoke, do you?”

“No, ma'am,” he said, trying to follow her into the main room, a combination kitchen/dining room/living room that was little more than ten feet square. The trailer smelled of chicken fat and sweat, with a slightly medicinal undertone that older people got when they stopped taking care of themselves.

“That's good,” she said, putting her hands out in front of her to feel her way toward her chair. “Smoking's horrible. Kills you something bad in the end.”

Beside him, Jeffrey saw a stack of
Guns & Ammo
along with magazines of a considerably more adult nature. He glanced at the old woman, wondering if she was aware that a copy of the 1978 Christmas edition of
Penthouse
sat less than three feet from where she stood.

She said, “Go on and sit if you can find a place. Just move that stuff aside. My Luke used to sit there and read to me.” She put her hand behind her, feeling for the chair. Jeffrey took her elbow and helped her sit. “I like the
National Geographic,
but
the
Reader's Digest
is getting a little too liberal for my liking.”

He asked, “Do you have someone who comes in to take care of you?”

“It was just Luke,” she told him. “His mama done run off with a door-to-door salesman. His daddy, that was my youngest boy, Ernest, well, he never amounted to much. Died in the penitentiary.”

“I'm sorry,” Jeffrey said, walking across the sticky carpet. He considered the chair, but remained standing.

“You sure do apologize a lot for things that ain't got nothing to do with you,” the woman said, feeling around on the table beside her. He saw a plate of crackers, and wondered how she chewed them. She put one in her mouth and he saw that she didn't chew them so much as let them melt on her tongue while she talked.

She told him amidst a spray of crumbs, “Cable's been out for two days now. I liked to had a fit when it went off—right in the middle of my program.”

Jeffrey started to say he was sorry again, but he caught himself. “Can you tell me about your grandson?”

“Oh, he was a good boy,” she said, her whiskered mouth trembling for a moment. “They got him down at the funeral home still?”

“I don't know. I guess.”

“I don't know where I'm gonna get the money to bury him. All I got is my social security and the little bit I get from the mill.”

“You worked there?”

“Up until I couldn't see no more,” she said, smacking her lips. She paused a beat as she swallowed the soggy cracker in her mouth. “That was four, five years ago, I'd say.”

She looked about a hundred, but she could not be that old if she was able to work in the mill that recently.

“Luke wanted me to get that surgery,” she told him, indicating her eyes. “I don't trust doctors. I've never been to a hospital. Wasn't even born in one,” she said proudly. “I say take the burdens God gives you and go on.”

“That's a good attitude,” Jeffrey said, though he wondered at choosing blindness for the rest of your life.

“He took care of me, that boy,” the old woman said. She reached for another cracker, and Jeffrey looked back at the small strip of a kitchen, wondering if that was all the food she had.

He asked, “Was Luke into anything bad that you know about? Maybe hanging out with the wrong kind of people?”

“He made money cleaning people's gutters and washing their windows. Nothing wrong with an honest day's work.”

She had said “win-ders” for windows, and Jeffrey smiled, thinking he hadn't heard that word in a while. “No, ma'am.”

“He had some trouble with the law, but what boy around here hasn't? Always something he was into, but the sheriff was real good about being fair. Let him make restitution to folks.” She put the cracker in
her mouth. “I just wished Luke'd found him a good woman to settle down with. That's all he needed was somebody to look after him.”

Jeffrey thought that Luke Swan had needed a hell of a lot more than that, but he kept this opinion to himself.

“I hear he was going with that deputy's wife.”

“That's what they say.”

“He always did have a way with the women.” She found this hilarious for some reason. She patted her knee as she laughed, and Jeffrey saw her bare gums as well as bits of cracker in her open mouth.

When she had finished, he asked, “Did he live here with you?”

“Back in the back. I slept here on the couch or in my chair sometimes. Don't take much to get me to sleep. I used to sleep out there in that tree when I was a little girl. My daddy'd come out sometimes and holler, ‘Girl, you git down from that tree,' but I'd sleep right through it.” She smacked her lips again. “You wanna see his room? That's what the other deputy wanted.”

“Which deputy?”

“Reggie Ray,” she said. “Now, there's a good man. He sings in the choir at church sometimes. I swear, that man has a voice like an angel.”

Again, Jeffrey held back his opinion, though he wondered why Reggie did not mention before that he had been to Luke Swan's house. Considering Reggie was a deputy, the visit was routine, but still, Jeffrey wondered.

He asked, “Did Reggie find anything?”

“Not that I know of,” she said. “You're welcome to go back and look around.”

“I appreciate it,” Jeffrey told her, patting her shoulder before heading back into the trailer.

He had to close the bifold door to the bathroom to get down the hall, but before he did, Jeffrey saw the filthiest toilet he had ever seen in his life. The walls were molded plastic shaped to look like tiles, and there were splatters of God knew what all around the tiny room. Only a blowtorch could have cleaned it off.

The old woman called, “You see anything?”

“Not yet,” Jeffrey said, trying to breathe through his mouth. He pushed back another bifold door, thinking nothing could be worse than the smell in the hallway. He was wrong. Luke Swan's room was a stinking mess. The sheets were pulled back and there was a stiff-looking patch at the center of the twin bed. A single bare lightbulb dangled over the bed, suspended from a wire looped across the ceiling. He could not believe Jessie could be interested in anyone who lived in a place like this. She was too damn picky. He hated to admit it, but Jessie had a little more class.

Two plastic storage boxes by the bed seemed to hold the bulk of Luke Swan's clothes. The plastic was clear, and Jeffrey was thankful he did not have to touch anything to see inside. Spiderwebs and the kind of dirt that took years to accumulate were under the bed, but except for a filthy-looking white sock, there was nothing else there.

The closet had a locker shoved into it, the same
kind you would find in a school. Stained underwear and socks were thrown onto the top shelf, shirts and jeans on the bottom. Jeffrey strained to see into the back, not wanting to put his hand into the locker. Just looking at Luke Swan's room made him feel like he had something crawling on him. Finally, he gave up and brushed the clothes out, hoping nothing bit him. Other than a pair of Speedos with a tear in the crotch, he found nothing.

Jeffrey turned around, looking back at the room. He was not about to touch the mattress, even if there was a letter explaining everything that had happened tucked underneath. Reggie would have done that, anyway. If he had found something incriminating, he sure as shit would have thrown it in Robert's face a long time ago.

Using his foot, Jeffrey kicked Swan's clothes back into the closet. After he had shoved everything back in, he changed his mind and pulled it back out. Hoping he did not get some sort of disease, Jeffrey put his hands on either side of the locker and pulled it out from the closet.

The metal made a horrible groaning noise, shaking the whole room, and the old woman called, “You okay in there?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he told her, but then, looking behind the locker, seeing what was hidden in the back of the closet, he suddenly was not okay at all.

“How . . .” he began, but could not ask the question. He could only sit on the nasty bed and stare, his mind reeling for a moment, trying to come up with some kind of explanation or story—something that would help put Robert in the clear instead of
pointing the finger right back at him. He kept coming back to the same conclusion, though, and he wanted a drink, several drinks, so bad he could taste the alcohol burning its way down to his belly.

“No,” he said, like saying it out loud would make it true. “No,” he repeated, but he still could not stop himself from asking, “Robert, what have you done?”

3:09
P.M.

“J
ared?” Smith said, slamming down the phone. “Who's Jared?”

Sara looked panicked, and Lena tried to distract him, saying, “You said you'd let Marla go.”

“Shut up,” he told her, sauntering toward Sara. “Who's Jared?” he repeated. “Who is he?”

Sara kept her mouth closed, like she was wondering how far she could push him.

Smith placed the shotgun against her ear. “I'm'a ask you one more time,” he said, his accent thicker as his voice dropped a few octaves. “Who's Jared?”

Jeffrey spoke, his voice thick with pain. “Jeffrey's son,” he said, but even Lena could hear his uncertainty. He wasn't confirming it, he was asking Sara a question.

“He didn't know,” Sara told Smith, her hand pressing to Jeffrey's good shoulder. “Jared has a father who raised him.”

Smith pulled the gun away, resting it on his shoul
der. “Fucker,” he spat, turning around to his accomplice. “You hear that, Sonny? He's got another kid.”

Lena was watching Sara, and the other woman's face went slack as if she was having a small seizure. She knew, Lena thought. She knew who they were.

Sonny was pissed that he had been given away, and he snapped. “Thanks a lot,
Eric.
”

Smith ran over to his partner, and they spoke in harsh whispers to each other. Lena strained to hear them, but they were being too careful. She chanced a look back at Marla, and the old lady had a glint in her eye. Lena realized she had been playing the part all along. She glanced down at Marla's hands, trying to see where she had hidden the knife.

“Fuck off!” Smith screamed, and Sonny pushed him hard enough so that Smith stumbled and fell.

Glass and debris scattered as Smith scrambled to get up. He ripped off his mask, which sent a sharp fear through Lena, as if someone had reached into her chest and grabbed her heart. Smith got back in Sonny's face, screaming obscenities, and all Lena could think was that they were all going to die now. He had shown his face. He did not care who saw him, which meant he did not think anyone would be alive to make an ID.

Sara screamed, “Look down! Don't look at him.”

Molly did as she was told, but Lena was too late. Smith reeled around, his heavy boots crunching glass. They made eye contact, and Lena thought she had never seen anyone so dead in her life. Smith ran toward the back of the room, gun raised. She tried to grab him but he shrugged her off like a blanket.

“Don't look at his face,” Sara repeated, just as
Smith slapped her hard enough to knock her over. Still, she told Molly, “Don't look at him. Close your eyes.”

Smith kicked Sara's shin, cutting a gash. He demanded, “What are you doing?”

“She hasn't seen you!” Sara screamed back, scrambling to sit up. “Molly hasn't seen you! Close your eyes!” She reached out to Molly, touching her leg before Smith pushed them apart.

“She has two children,” Sara said, panic making her voice shrill. “Two boys at home. Let her go. She hasn't seen you.”

Molly sat where she had been since this all started. She held Jeffrey's hand in her own, her eyes tightly closed. She might have been praying.

“She hasn't seen you,” Sara repeated, her voice shaking. “She hasn't seen you. Let her go.”

Smith stared at them, his eyes moving back and forth, and Lena could see him struggling to think this through. He glanced over his shoulder at his partner, but did not invite his opinion.

Lena said, “You could let her go. Let her take Marla.”

Smith seemed to consider this, too. “What about my arm?” he asked. He turned back to Molly, who still had her eyes closed. “You said you'd suture it.”

“I need the lidocaine,” she said. “I need . . .” She turned and looked at Lena oddly. “Give me thirty-three cc's of the two percent lidocaine.” Her tone was sharp, her tongue carving each letter like a razor as she repeated herself, “Thirty-three cc's of two percent.”

Sara's confusion came too quickly to hide. Lena
saw her brow knit, but Smith obviously knew enough to say, “You trying to put me out?” He pushed her with the toe of his boot. “Huh?”

“No,” Molly answered. Still keeping her eyes averted from Smith, she managed to glance at the clock on the wall, reminding Lena that they would come at 3:32. Lena gave a tight nod, letting her know she understood. Twenty minutes to go.

Smith pushed the shotgun into Molly's face, even jumpier now. “Get out of here,” he said. “I don't trust you. Take the old lady, too.”

Molly stood, Sara with her.

“What are you doing?” Smith asked.

“She's my friend,” Sara told him, embracing the nurse. “Tell my family . . .” Sara began, but obviously could not finish.

Molly went to Marla and tried to help her stand, but the old woman was too afraid to do anything.

“It's okay,” Lena told her, reaching under Marla's arm to assist her. Marla's hand brushed across her ass, and Lena was confused until she realized that Marla had tucked the pocketknife into her back pocket.

Lena hazarded a look at Smith, but he had not seen anything. Likewise, Sonny seemed unaware.

“All right,” Smith said, indicating the door. “Move it.” He waved his gun at Marla. “Come on, get going before I change my mind.”

Molly kept her head down as she walked with Marla toward the front door. Lena could see her whole body was practically vibrating with fear, and she knew that Molly had realized that her back was a target until she was safely across the street.

Smith strolled after them, his gait still casual. He
whispered something as he passed Lena that she was glad she could not hear. She kept her expression neutral, wondering how she could get the knife out of her pocket and drive it deep into Smith's heart.

“Psst,” Brad said. She lifted her chin, letting him know she was listening.

“What did she mean?”

Lena kept her voice as low as she could. “Time.”

Brad thought for a moment. “Three thirty-two?” he whispered, and she nodded. “On your signal.”

“Get ready,” Smith told his partner, and Sonny leaned over the counter, lining up his rifle for a shot. “Now!”

Lena saw what they were doing and lunged toward the front of the room, screaming, “No!” just as the gun went off.

She had been several feet away, and Smith had ample time to ward off her blow. He looked annoyed, and pushed her away like he had done before, like he was swatting a fly. Lena stood quickly, but not to challenge him. She looked out the front windows, seeing Molly kneeling over Marla. The old woman had been shot in the back. SWAT swarmed, giving them both cover as they were dragged to the cleaners.

“Marla,” Lena said, still looking out the window. “They got Marla.” She turned on Smith, her fists raised. “You fucking bastard!” she yelled, pounding into him. It was just like with Ethan—he was nothing but a wall of muscle.

“Whoa,” Smith said, stepping back, taking her with him. He caught her hands easily, laughing at her anger. “You're a feisty one,” he said, wrapping his
hand around her ass and pulling Lena into him. “You like that, lady? You like that big cock?”

Lena clenched her jaw shut. “You killed her,” she hissed, digging her fingernails into his arms. “You killed that old lady.”

He put his lips close to her ear. “I might kill you, too, honey, but don't worry, we'll have a little fun first.”

She jerked away, her hand catching on the bandage he had tied around his bicep. She threw the bloody cloth on the ground, then wiped her hands down her legs as if she could get the filth off herself. “You bastard,” she said. “You murdering bastard.”

He had his hand to his arm, and she could see the blood pooling through his fingers. “That's not good,” he said.

Sonny put down his gun and took a bandana out of his pants pocket. He said, “Here,” and Smith took the cloth.

“Wrap this around my arm,” Smith ordered, holding it out to Lena.

“Fuck off,” she said, and he gave her an open-palmed slap that sent her to the floor.

“Do it,” he told her, handing her the bandana again.

Lena stood and took the cloth. His arm was bleeding profusely, though from what she could tell, the wound was not deep. Still, she tied a tourniquet around his upper arm, pulling it tight, wishing she was squeezing it around his neck.

“What are you looking at?” Smith asked Sara, pushing Lena away as he walked to the back of the room. Sonny had his gun raised again, and he gave
Lena a look of warning before turning back to the door.

Smith repeated, “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” Sara told him, kneeling by Jeffrey again. She put her hand to his face, and Lena saw he stirred, but did not wake. “He needs to be in a hospital.”

“We're gonna take care of him right here,” he said, using his foot to push over the case from the ambulance. He told Lena, “Grab that other shit.”

She got the defibrillator and the IV kit, casting a look over her shoulder for Sonny's benefit. Brad had moved closer to the other man, but not enough to crowd him.

“I'm not a vascular surgeon,” Sara said.

“You'll do,” Smith told her, taking the bag from Lena.

Sara kept trying. “The axillary artery has been hit. I won't be able to see anything.”

“Doesn't bother me,” he said, kneeling down beside Jeffrey.

“I can't do a block under these circumstances,” she told him. “I'm not an anesthesiologist.”

“You keep making excuses, I'm gonna think you don't want to do this.” Smith dumped the IV kit onto the floor.

“What are you doing?”

“Might as well give him a fighting chance,” Smith said, unbuttoning Jeffrey's shirt cuff.

“I can do that,” Sara told him, but Smith waved her off.

Sara demanded, “Why are you doing this?”

“Why not?” he shrugged as he rolled up Jeffrey's
sleeve. “Nothing better to do.” Still, he gave Lena a look over his shoulder, and she wondered again if he was showing off for her benefit or if he just liked playing these games. Maybe it was a little of both.

“You should insert the cannula . . .” Sara began, but Smith shot her a look of warning.

Lena watched as he wrapped the rubber tourniquet around Jeffrey's upper arm. He was by no means an expert, but he managed to get the needle inserted into the vein on the third try.

Smith laughed at his failed attempts. “Good thing he's passed out.”

“You've seen this done before,” Sara said. “How often do you need infusions?”

He looked up at her, and Lena could see his crystal blue eyes registering first alarm, then something that looked like joy. They both stared at each other for a few beats, before Smith laughed.

He said, “Took you long enough.”

“You've got it wrong,” she told him, and Lena wished to God she knew what Sara was talking about. “You've got it all wrong.”

“Maybe,” he said, glancing at his accomplice. The other man was staring out the front window as if he had no concern about what was going on in the rest of the room. Lena knew that he was watching them, though. Sonny, or whatever his name was, had eyes in the back of his head.

Smith connected the IV, then called Lena over. “Hold this,” he said, meaning the drip bag. “Make yourself useful.”

Lena sat down, her back against the wall. She kept one hand tucked behind her as the other held
the IV. Smith was less than a foot away from her, but Lena had no idea what she could do.

Smith opened the medical case. “Tell me what to give you.”

Sara said, “I can't do this.”

“Lady,” Smith told her, “you don't have a choice.”

She sat back, shaking her head. “I refuse.”

“I'll kill a kid for every minute that you don't do this,” he said. When she did not respond, he took the gun out of his waistband, held it up, and aimed the muzzle toward one of the girls.

Brad moved in front of the child, and Smith said, “I'll shoot you, too.”

“And then what?” Sara asked. “You shoot them all, and it's just me left?”

He nodded toward Lena without looking at her. “I can think of some other things to do,” he said. “What do you think about that, Doctor? You wanna watch that, too?”

“You wouldn't,” Sara said, though surely she knew he would.

He asked her, “You think that kind of thing runs in families?”

Sara looked down, something like shame passing across her face.

Lena could not keep herself from asking, “What are you talking about?”

“Don't you know?” Smith responded. “Of course you don't know. It's not like he's gonna advertise he's a fucking rapist, is it?”

“Who?” Lena said, just as Sara told Smith, “No.”

“Don't like that, do you?” Smith asked. He kept
the gun pointed toward Brad, saying, “How about you, Skippy? You like hearing that?”

Brad shook his head. “It's not true.”

“What's not true?” Lena asked.

Smith looked back at Sara. “Tell them, Doc. Tell them why we're all here.”

“No,” Sara insisted. “You've got it all wrong.”

Smith's lips peeled back in an awful smile as he told Lena, “Your boss? Big Chief Tolliver lying out there with his head blown off ? He raped my mother, and I'm the bastard that paid for it.”