Riven (36 page)

Her arms were folded across her chest, and she wore a transparent plastic rain hat. She was staring at the wreckage of a trailer about forty feet away and was apparently unable to talk herself into moving closer.

Brady moved next to her and startled her by putting his arm around her shoulder. It struck him that he had not touched his mother in years.

“Brady,” she said, her voice thin and raspy. “You heard from Petey?”

“No. You?”

She shook her head. “No school today. He’s with friends somewhere.”

“I wish. I think he was here, Ma.”

She turned to look at him, and Brady pulled away, hunching his shoulders against the cold.

The trailer was broken in half, lying on its side, familiar contents appearing to have gushed out. Kitchen appliances lay about, closets broken open, clothes and junk spilled here and there. Furniture was soaking up the rain.

“I got to check, Ma. Got to look for him.”

“He’s not in there, Brady. No possible way.”

“I need to make sure. You coming?”

She shook her head.

The closest emergency crew was two blocks away. Brady didn’t like the silence that pervaded the pile of former homes that had made up his neighborhood. Some of the residents were elderly. Others were young mothers who stayed home with little kids all day. Had no one survived?

When Brady got to the ripped and shredded aluminum that had been the skin of his trailer, he saw his sawed-off shotgun and some shells strewn about. The toilet lay on its side. The kitchen table was on its top, three remaining legs pointing skyward.

And there, protruding from under the refrigerator, were the torso and legs of Peter.

Brady climbed through the junk and pushed with all his weight, rolling the giant box off his brother. Peter’s head had been crushed, and a metal rod of some sort had run him through, just above the abdomen. Unable to keep from shaking, Brady forced himself to press his fingers to the boy’s neck, feeling his carotid artery for a pulse.

Brady slid to sit next to the body and hung his head. Racking sobs attacked him, and he rolled over to embrace his bloody brother. Suddenly realizing his mother could see him, he looked up quickly to see her slowly approach.

“Stay there, Ma!” he wailed. “You don’t want to see this!”

“Is it Petey?”

“Yeah!”

“Is he dead?”

“Yeah!”

She stopped about halfway and stood staring, hands deep in her pockets. She had never been much of a mother, Brady knew, but nobody deserved this.

He realized the kitchen table was askew and grabbed a leg to see what was underneath. And there it was, that thing that was so important that Brady had made Peter promise to be there to take delivery of it. The top of the cookie tin was gone, but the rest was otherwise intact, packed tightly with small bricks of marijuana, and the bottom—if the pusher could be trusted—lined with packets of methamphetamine.

Tears streaming, Brady put the tin in his lap and separated the cellophane packs of grass. Sure enough, crystal meth.

If anything should have made Brady Darby fling this garbage into the debris, it should have been the body of his own brother not three feet away. But, Brady realized, the dope and the check in his pocket constituted the entirety of his worldly goods. That and his brother’s automobile.

What in the world kind of a brother was he?
Forgive me, Petey. I’m hopeless.

Brady couldn’t just leave his mother standing there in the freezing rain. He emptied the tin and stuffed everything into his pockets, then covered his brother’s head with a shirt. He pulled Peter’s wallet from his pocket, emptied it of cash—about twenty dollars—and took the driver’s license.

“Just a minute, Ma!” he called out, then jogged to an ambulance down the way. He told an EMT about his brother, left the man his own name and Peter’s license, and asked him to call his work number to tell him where they would take the body.

Then Brady went back and retrieved his shotgun, tucking it down his pants and grabbing as many shells as he could fit into his jacket pockets.

When he got to his mother, she said, “We had insurance, you know.”

Insurance? That was what she was thinking about with her son lying dead? Well, he was no better, covering his own tail and worrying about his dope deals.

“Yeah?”

“Um-hm. I think the trailer was worth like four thousand dollars. That’ll give me a down payment on a new one.”

Brady wanted to smack her, scream at her. Truth be told, he wanted to shoot her. But maybe this was how parents reacted when they were in shock.

“Where’d you park?” he said. “I’m stuck in a ditch and will need a tow, so . . .”

She started walking. “You think Petey’s school insurance covers this?” she said.

“Covers what?”

“An act of God. Sometimes it doesn’t, you know. And I don’t even know if it’s life insurance. Maybe it’s just personal injury, something like that. High schools don’t insure kids against death, do they? I mean at home?”

Brady glared at her. “What if they do, Ma? Would that be good news? Would that make your day?”

“Well, sure, ’course, in a way. I mean, I don’t know how much it’d be, but maybe with that and the four grand, I wouldn’t need a loan on a new place.”

She was as bad as he was, maybe worse. “So, you remember where your car is?” he said.

“Over there.”

“Okay. I’ll see ya.”

“Thought you needed a ride. I don’t even know where I’m going. Do you?”

“I’m sure one of your boyfriends will take you in,” he said. “And I’ll figure something out. I’ll call you when I find out where they’re taking Petey.”

“And then what am I supposed to do?”

“Have a funeral, Ma! What do you think? Were you just gonna leave him there, hoping somebody would dispose of the body?”

“Well, I can’t afford that.”

Brady turned on her and found himself screaming, cursing, calling her the vilest things he could think of—and he could think of plenty. She looked surprised, as if she couldn’t imagine what might have triggered this.

“Well,” she said, “if that’s how you feel, don’t come crawling to me, looking for a place to live. And by the way, you owe me last month’s rent.”

“Sue me,” he said.

When he got back to where he’d left Peter’s car, he prevailed on a tow truck driver to pull him out. He told the man he could pay cash and that he didn’t want some other car sliding in there and crushing his. The guy seemed perturbed but apparently agreed it was better to just get it done right then or it might not happen for days.

“I’m going to be living in this car,” Brady told him. “Just lost my trailer.”

But as the car came sliding up the embankment, a police officer approached. “I’m going to need to see some ID and proof that this vehicle is yours.”

Brady pulled out his wallet and gushed the story of all that had just happened.

“I’m sorry to hear that, son, but until we can confirm your story, I’m going to have to search you, and—”

“Search me why? What did I do? I just lost my home and my brother and—”

“That may all be true, Mr. Darby, but you were seen looting a disaster site, including the body of a victim.”

“That was my brother! And that was my place! Whatever I took from there is mine! You can ask my ma! She was just here. And I was giving the EMT my brother’s ID, that’s all.”

“That should be easy to confirm,” the officer said. “But meanwhile, hands on the car, feet back and spread ’em.”

“You don’t need to search me, man.”

“You gonna make this hard?”

“No, but see, you’re gonna find stuff I’m not supposed to have on me. I just got out of the joint and am on probation.”

“What have you got on you?”

“A weapon and drugs, but they’re not mine. They were my brother’s. He was in deep trouble, doing crimes, and I was trying to help him, you know?”

The cop got on his radio. “I’m going to need backup,” he said.

“We’re a little thin on personnel,” came the reply.

“Roger that, but this is a felony arrest.”

In the back of the squad car, hands cuffed behind him, bloody from embracing his brother, Brady lowered his head, praying he could die. If his hands were free, he would have found a way to kill himself. His life as he knew it was over anyway, and he had blamed the drugs and the shotgun on his own dead brother.

42

Adamsville

When Summer Grace Carey-Blanc was born, she was just the tonic for Thomas. It thrilled him to hold the tiny princess, and he chortled at her every look and sound. With an exotic mix of fair skin, dark eyes, and wisps of dark, reddish hair, she was intoxicating. He could barely look away from her curious expressions.

And to see Grace become immediately maternal toward both Ravinia and the baby, well, Thomas found his whole attitude and demeanor changed. Even at work, Gladys said she noticed Thomas’s new enthusiasm for life.

“We all wanna see that new baby,” Gladys said. “See the little woman what put a smile on your face. But don’t you dare bring her to this cesspool. You got to invite us someday, that’s all.”

Little had changed with Dirk and Ravinia. Thomas sensed more distance between them, yet they both doted on Summer. Grace had the temerity to ask if she and Thomas could have the baby dedicated at Village Church sometime soon, but Ravinia put her foot down. “I don’t want to go all lawyerly on you, Mom, but I can use your own logic against you.”

“Well,” Grace said, “I do want to talk about it.”

“Fine. I grew up in church. I know what baby dedication is all about, and it’s hardly about the baby.”

“Pardon me?”

“Dad said it every time he conducted one of those things. What you’re really doing is dedicating the parents to raising the kid for Jesus, right?”

“Well, sure, but—”

“And we’re supposed to stand up there pretending to be good soldiers, committing ourselves to the task?”

“I’d certainly like to think the people at Village Church will get to know Summer and love her and want to commit themselves to teaching her and—”

“And so do you.”

“Of course,” Grace said.

“Then dedicate yourselves, but leave us out of it.”

“You mean we
can
dedicate her?”

“Without us? Not on your life! How would that look? You and Dad up there with our baby, making it plain to the world that the heathen parents are nowhere to be seen and oh, the poor child . . . ? No way. You just privately dedicate yourselves to having whatever influence you want on your granddaughter, and yes, we’ll let you take her to church now and then.”

Thomas and Grace did just that, hoping the day would come when Summer was old enough to be involved in a church program that Rav and Dirk would be unable to miss.

Adamsville County Jail

Brady had really done it this time. Violating his parole in just about every way possible, being found with a deadly weapon
and
ammunition
and
too many drugs for personal consumption, he found himself in the county jail before he could catch his breath.

His aunt and uncle buried Peter at their own expense, and Brady was allowed to attend the funeral, sitting in the pew between two sheriff’s deputies. He saw his mother there only briefly, just long enough for her to report that there had been no clause in Peter’s school insurance to cover death by act of God. She told him she was taking possession of Peter’s car, selling hers, taking the tiny insurance settlement on her trailer, and moving to just outside Nashville, Tennessee, to work in an auto manufacturing plant.

Brady nodded as she talked and shook his head as she left, then was escorted to an unmarked squad car for transport back to his cell. The county jail rivaled Los Angeles County and Cook County in Chicago as the most crowded such facilities in the United States—jam-packed, understaffed, and full of violence, gangs, and drugs.

Brady used his acting skills and gift of gab to get next to, of all people, the head of one of the most notorious black gangs. He told the glowering, heavily tattooed fat man—who called himself Tiny—that he wanted to become a member.

“You? Pasty white boy? Prove it.”

“How?”

“Lemme give you a tat.”

“A tattoo? Oh, I, uh, can’t do that, ’cause of my career.”

Tiny laughed, his big belly jiggling. “You got a career?”

“Yeah, I’m an actor.”

Tiny squinted. “I watch a lot of TV. Never seen you.”

“Uh, just regional commercials so far—mostly West Coast—but my agent says I have big potential, so, you know, no tats. And you want me to keep my options open on that front, Mr. Tiny, because it can mean a lot of money for you guys when I get out.”

“That so?”

“Yes, sir, and I also have a lot of money stashed away from an armored car robbery I engineered, which was what got me sent here.”

Tiny’s eyes lit up. “
You
pulled that job?”

With that enticement and more every time he thought of something, Brady bought himself protection from one of the most feared cons in the place. He had no idea what would become of him when he got out and never came through on all his promises. But why worry about tomorrow today? The story of his life.

Of course it was not beyond Brady to play both ends against the middle, putting him in position to risk his life every day. As the only white aide to Tiny, he became both a target of other gangs and vigorously protected. And when the antigang unit at County called Brady in, he saw the opportunity to help himself in new ways.

Lieutenant Dale, head of the task force, sat Brady down and told him that since he was a known gang member, he was missing out on an important opportunity.

“Such as?”

“Early release.”

“How would I qualify for that?”

“Few do, but we’re processing in over a thousand new inmates a week, and fewer than that are being processed out. We can’t expand, and we can’t add cells, so all we can do is add newcomers to the cells we have. How many cellmates you got now?”

“Six.”

“See? Your cell was built for two, and by next week, you’ll have a seventh in there. Guys with worse records than yours are getting out, just due to overcrowding. Don’t you want that? ’Cause as a known gang member, you don’t qualify.”