Sister Mine (17 page)

“Don't trivialize this,” Isabel tells him. “This is her child we're talking about. A woman doesn't easily give up her own child.”

“Shannon would.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask roughly.

“It means she never cared about anybody. Why would she care about her kid?”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” I respond, knowing full well that he does.

I look toward Isabel for some assistance.

“I always worried about her,” she says instead of helping me to defend her. “Sometimes I wondered if she had a form of attachment disorder. I had a student once who was diagnosed with it. He reminded me a lot of Shannon. It's when a child can't develop an emotional bond with anyone.”

“She was attached to me,” I argue.

“Oh, yeah. She was attached all right,” E.J. says. “I never said anything at the time because everyone was so torn up, but hell, it's been almost twenty years since she left. She wasn't attached to you, Shae-Lynn. She could've cared less about you.”

“How can you say that to me?”

“It's not an insult to you,” Isabel tries to defuse the situation.

“Oh, no. Of course not. There's nothing insulting in saying my own sister didn't care about me.”

“There isn't.”

“Are you going to tell me my dad didn't care about me, too?”

“It's not your fault,” E.J. explains. “They were fucked up.”

“Eamon, stop it,” his mother gasps.

“Shannon was a cold-hearted selfish bitch and your father was a violent prick who got his jollies beating on little girls.”

“I said, stop it,” Isabel cries.

“Enough. Everyone. Calm yourselves,” Jimmy's voice rings out. “Eamon cares about you, Shae-Lynn. It's the only reason he says these things.”

People often describe an Irish accent as singsong or lyrical, but I've never thought of it that way. There's more resignation in the cadence than hope. When I listen to Jimmy, I don't hear a melody of optimism but the individual weary notes of survival.

“You've spent your whole life taking care of other people. Why is it so wrong if someone wants to take care of you?” Jimmy asks.

“I don't want anyone to take care of me.” E.J. jumps up from the couch and gestures toward me with his hand.

“See?” he says looking back and forth between his parents like my presence here has suddenly proved some theory they were recently discussing.

I stand up, too.

So does Isabel. She places a hand on my arm.

“Shae-Lynn. Please don't go.”

“Stay and have a drink,” Jimmy urges.

Isabel whirls on him.

“Enough, James.”

“Let him have it, Mom. He's a grown man. He can drink if he wants to.”

“It's not good for him.”

“His whole life hasn't been good for him.” E.J. leaves the room and comes back with a bottle of Jim Beam and a juice glass.

Isabel rushes to him and grabs at the bottle.

“Mom, let him have it.”

They engage in a brief, half-hearted tug-of-war.

“Let him have it,” E.J. repeats. “It helps.”

Their eyes meet for an instant. They're both thinking about the accident, but from absurdly different emotional angles like a yolk and a hen each contemplating the shell of an egg.

Isabel lets go.

We all watch Jimmy take the bottle and fill the small glass with the amber liquid. He takes a grateful sip and sits in silence, staring out the window at the quiet road and the dark hills beyond lumped up against the white sky like a carelessly tossed coat.

Soon he will be poetically drunk, as E.J. calls it, an inebriated state that occurs only in Irishmen where even the most uneducated and illiterate among them begin to quote Yeats and Joyce and Beckett with an occasional limerick thrown in.

This will be followed by more drinking which will lead to him sitting slumped in a chair for hours staring at nothing while blue antics flash by unnoticed on a TV screen in a dark room before he passes out.

I follow Isabel into the kitchen to help get dinner on the table while E.J. disappears outside. He won't take part in his dad's descent even though he feels he has no right to stop it. I don't blame him for cutting out.

My father was a mean drunk. Jimmy is a pathetic drunk, which is easier to endure but harder to bear.

Chapter Fifteen

S
OMETIMES I STAY AND VISIT
for awhile, but today I leave right after I help Isabel with the dishes.

On my way home I decide to swing by Dusty's and see how he's doing.

The restaurant sits all alone about two miles west of town in the middle of an unmarked gravel parking lot. Square, squat, devoid of any exterior adornment, painted an almost sinister shade of purple, the building displays all the architectural ambition of a roadside strip club and gives off all the homey warmth of a fire-ravaged garage.

It's only been closed for a month, but the windows are already gray with dirt and neglect. The paint on the exterior walls has begun to flake. The neon sign proclaiming “Dusty's” in cursive script above the front door has been shot out by some kids and all that remains are a few jagged shards of green glass.

He's here. The black Range Rover he bought with some of the money from the movie deal is parked at the side of the restaurant, giving off a glow like a piece of onyx.

Lib bought a new SUV, too, but his fenders are proudly spattered with mud, the windshield dotted with splattered bugs, and it usually has a twig or two sticking out of the grill.

Ray didn't buy a vehicle for himself, but his wife went out and bought a neon-yellow Pontiac Sunfire for herself before there was even a hint that any of them had the potential to make money from what they had gone through. I think she believed that the general populace was going to donate money to her because her husband survived a mining disaster the same way people give money to the parents of children with life-threatening illnesses to help pay their medical bills.

At the last minute I change my mind about stopping. Suddenly I don't feel up to having a heart-to-heart talk with a messed-up kid.

I can't stop thinking about what E.J. said about Shannon and wondering if he could be right, and if he is right how much of it is my fault.

Shannon could be very distant and downright hostile at times but we also had some good times together. Now I'm wondering if those good times were only because she was in the mood for a good time, or because she wanted something from me.

Did she sit on Mom's rug with me and look at books because she didn't have anything better to do? Did she run into my arms only because she wanted protection from Dad? Did she smile at me across a table in Eatn'Park because she was enjoying the moment or only enjoying the pie? Could I have been anybody or nobody at all?

I'm within a couple miles of my house as the crow flies when I spot what appears to be an empty blue Ford with New Jersey plates parked on the side of the road.

I pull up behind it, get out of my car, and walk slowly toward it, keeping a fair distance between myself and its windows until I'm absolutely sure there's no one inside.

The floor is covered in fast-food wrappers and plastic cups with straws sticking out of the lids. A black leather jacket and a black gym bag with “Good Sports Gym” written in gray across one side sits in the backseat, unzipped, with various items of male clothing stuffed inside.

I walk around to the passenger side and try the door. It's unlocked.

I open the glove compartment, and a car rental agreement, a Pennsylvania road map, and a photo of my sister fall out.

Next I go through the gym bag and find nothing but men's clothing: socks, underwear, a couple balled-up T-shirts, and a pair of jeans. I check the pockets of the jacket and only find a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. Nothing incriminating.

The trunk is a different story. It appears to be empty but beneath the spare tire I find a box of bullets.

Pamela Jameson asked me if I carry a gun. I don't. I don't keep one in my car either. I have a Colt .45 auto I've kept since my Capitol police days that I still take to the range once a month for target practice, and I have my Dad's old bolt-action hunting rifle that I keep clean but rarely use.

Right now, I wouldn't mind having my .45 with me. I have a bad feeling about this latest out-of-state plate with a tie to Shannon. Not to mention that things are also starting to get personal. Whoever is renting this car and walking around with a revolver is much too close to my home and my town.

I walk back to my car and write down the name and address and credit card number off the rental agreement and the car's license plate in a small notebook that I use to keep track of my jobs.

My skirt doesn't have any pockets to put my keys in so I take everything off the key ring except my car key and hook it on the side of my bikini underwear. I slip my cell phone inside a leather strap inside my boot that's traditionally used for holding a hunting knife. I put the rest of my keys and the bullets in my glove compartment, lock my car, and start following New Jersey's trail down the side of the road.

It's not hard to do. He's left large, obvious footprints in the mud on the side of the road and the tracks are fairly unique for this area. He's definitely not wearing the kind of shitkickers most men wear around here. I'd say from the point of the toe, the lack of tread, and the deep indentation from the heel that he's either wearing cowboy boots or a slick pair of Jersey ankle boots made for clubbing.

The tracks end suddenly when he decided to sneak off into the woods. He didn't pick a very convenient place to do it. The ground slopes upward, and the undergrowth is thick and brambly. I can see where he slipped and grabbed hold of a branch of mountain laurel that broke off in his hand.

He's not much of a Boy Scout. I wonder what they're teaching Boy Scouts these days if they're giving Girl Scouts anti-stress badges. I suppose they've had to adapt to modern-day concerns as well. Gone is the badge for silently tracking wildlife; it's been replaced by a badge for stalking women across state lines. This guy couldn't have earned either.

But I will give him credit for figuring out how to get from the road to my property through this roundabout, inconvenient, unnecessary way. He could have driven to my front door and parked in my driveway and been less conspicuous to a passerby, but he apparently wants the element of surprise on his side. He wants to ambush Shannon with a gun. What has she got herself into?

I easily follow his trail through the woods. Before I get close enough to see him, I hear him: sticks snapping underfoot, branches swatting against denim, sporadic quiet cursing.

He finally comes into view. He stops next to a bare old oak, stuffs his gun into the back waistband of his jeans, and lights up a cigarette. He's wearing a white T-shirt that makes him stand out against the naked, gray trees like a surrender flag. He's immaculately bald with a bushy, jet-black mustache.

I study him a moment longer, deciding if I can take him. He's not a terrifically big guy—medium height and medium build—but he looks to be in good shape. The muscles in his arms are well defined, and he has the pumped swagger of a guy who lifts weights.

I could try and have a friendly conversation with him, but I doubt if that would get me anywhere. I could head back to my car and probably arrive at my house before he gets there. Then if he makes his presence known, I'll be armed, too.

I could call Clay with the car rental information and have this guy picked up for trespassing and carrying a concealed weapon—which I'm also willing to bet isn't licensed—even though the land isn't posted and a gun charge is meaningless around here, but that would mean letting people find out about Shannon, and I don't want that to happen until I know the whole truth for myself.

I wait until he's done with his smoke and starts moving again, knowing he'll be unsteady and preoccupied.

He takes his gun out from his waistband and holds it casually in front of him at hip height. It's chrome- or nickel-plated and throws off glints of silver as he makes his way through the trees. I don't know what he thinks he's going to run into in these woods. The scariest thing out here, by far, is him.

I get as close to him as possible without him hearing me before I rush him. He starts to twist around just as I'm on top of him, and I hit him full force in his side with my shoulder like I'm trying to take out a linebacker.

The awkward angle of his body and the unexpected force of mine slamming into him makes him lose his balance. He takes a tumble onto his back but still manages to hold on to his gun.

Before he can gather his wits about him, I bring my boot down on his wrist with all my might. He cries out and releases the gun, and I kick it away from him before he grabs my leg with his other hand and tosses me off him.

I'm back up on my feet before he's on his. I call him an ugly prick, wanting to make sure he comes after me instead of going for his lost revolver.

When he does, I duck his swing and stick out my leg while grabbing the front of his shirt with one fist. His speed and weight carry him forward over my hip, and he flips over onto his back again.

He's winded but not down for the count. He goes for my leg again as I make a break for the gun. I feel his grasping hand slide down my calf, trying in vain to get a good grip on me. I yank my foot free, leaving him holding my boot.

“Okay, stand up very slowly,” I tell him once I have the gun—a chrome-plated .357 magnum—held two-handed in front of me, pointed at his head.

My heart is beating so loudly, it's hard to hear the sound of my own voice.

“And put the boot down nicely.”

He glances at my boot in his hand then whips it as hard as he can off into the woods.

“You son of a bitch,” I snarl at him, my attention being briefly averted by the sight of my dearest footwear somersaulting through the air.

He takes advantage of the distraction by making a move toward me, but I recover quickly and train the gun back on him.

“I should make you get on your hands and knees and crawl over there and find it for me.”

“It was ugly boot,” he says flatly with an accent, possibly Russian.

His eyes are as black as his mustache.

“Let's see some ID,” I tell him automatically.

I realize instantly how stupid I sound under the circumstances. He does, too, and gives me a slow, mocking smile.

“ID? You sound like cop.”

“Ex-cop.”

“You? You were cop?”

The smile is a grin now.

“Who did you protect?” he asks me. “Ballerinas?”

“I knocked you on your ass twice. What does that make you? The Sugar Plum Fairy?”

He continues smiling as he reaches into his back pocket.

I lower the gun to his crotch.

He holds his hands up and tries to look harmless. It doesn't work.

“I just want cigarette.”

He waits for me to nod my approval.

“I know you're not Mike Kennedy,” I tell him, “the name on your car rental agreement.”

He shakes a cigarette out of his pack and pops it between his lips.

“I'm very impressed. I see you were famous detective in your day.”

He pauses to light up with a lighter behind a cupped hand.

“Why you care who I am? It makes no difference.”

I meet his black stare. Short of shooting his balls off I know I'm not going to get him to tell me his name and even then he might not do it. Plus it doesn't matter. He's here at someone else's request; that's the name I want and the reason why.

“I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt and say you're out of your element, Boris. Otherwise, you really suck at this.”

“Suck at what?”

“Your job. You did a very poor job of tracking this girl. You left your car parked on the side of the road where anyone can see it.”

He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and waves it at me unconcerned.

“Nobody drives here.”

“But the few people who do are going to notice. You'd have more anonymity parked on the side of the busiest highway in New Jersey.

“You should have rented a car in PA so it would have PA plates,” I continue. “You left the car doors unlocked so anyone could go through your stuff and your trunk.”

I wait to see if this bit of information ruffles him, but he remains unmoved.

“You left a trail through the woods that would make an elephant proud, and you're wearing a white shirt that makes you visible from a half mile away.”

I finish by asking him point-blank, “Why are you stalking her?”

“I'm not stalking nobody. I'm tourist who walks in the woods looking for small furry creatures.”

“What do you want?”

“I'm not talking to you.”

“Yes, you are.”

“You think I'm afraid by you?”

I shoot. The .357 jumps in my palms. The recoil climbs up my forearms while the explosion shatters the silence of the woods and starts my ears ringing. The bullet flies by his head close enough for him to feel the breeze.

His hands leap to his ears, and he falls to his knees.

“Shit!” he shouts.

“How much do you know about her?” I ask him with the gun still pointed at him.

He picks up the cigarette that fell out of his mouth and puts it back in his mouth as he gets slowly to his feet.

“Do you know I'm her sister? Do you know my son is a county deputy? Do you know I used to be a cop around here and I still have a lot of friends in law enforcement who would be more than happy to help make sure no trouble came to me if I decided to shoot some smart-assed Russian in the balls? Do you know anything about me? About my reputation? About my dislike for balls attached to rude men? Do you know I'm having a bad couple of days?”

I shoot again. This shot is closer than I intended. It grazes his shoulder. A tear appears in the shoulder of his T-shirt, quickly followed by a small red stain.

He makes a noise that sounds like he's coughing. I assume he's swearing in Russian.

The cigarette falls to the ground again.

“Okay! Stop with shooting!”

He touches his shoulder with two fingers and stares incredulously at the blood.