White Lies (17 page)

Zach broke apart, looked toward the road, and frowned. “Who the hell's that?”

She blinked, a little fuzzy.
Who cares?
she wanted to say.
We were kissing!
“Someone who lives down the road?” she suggested.

“Isn't your cabin the last one on this road?”

“My cabin?”

“Whatever. Your sister's.”

“It's not her—” She bit her lip.

Zach frowned. “Not her what?”

“Nothing.”

“Not her cabin?”

“No, it is.”

His frown deepened. “What's going on here?”

“Nothing. I told you.”

“Why don't I believe you?”

“It's true.”

The sound of the car grew louder. The high beams illuminated the nearby trees, turning them a ghostly gray. They both watched as the car—a light-colored pickup truck—passed by.

Zach shoved himself to his feet. “I'll be back in a minute.”

“Where are you going?”

“To check it out.”

“Why? Who cares?”

But he had already left, hurrying to catch up to the truck.

Katrina and Jack both heard the vehicle approach. They looked at one other, each thinking the same thing. Who could it possibly be?

“I'll take a look,” Jack said, going to the window.

“Who is it?” Katrina asked.

“You're not going to like this.”

“Why? What?”

“Charlie's back.”

Charlie? Old man Charlie? No-party Charlie?
“God!” she exclaimed. She jumped off the sofa and joined Jack at the window. “What's
he
doing here?”

“I'll go find out.”

Jack went out onto the porch. Katrina followed. Charlie slammed the truck door closed and limped, scowling, toward them. “You!” he spat, stopping at the bottom of the porch steps and waving his cane at Jack. “What did I tell you about havin' no goddamn parties?”

“A few people stopped by,” Jack said evenly as the old man clumped up the steps. “They're all teachers from Cascade High School. Responsible folk. You have nothing to worry about. The place will be as good as new tomorrow morning.”

Charlie pointed his cane toward the shouting and music coming from the lake. “Responsible folk, you say?” He almost spit the words out. “That don't sound like responsible folk to me. Sounds like a wagonload of college bastards. Am I right? Hell, yes! That's what the neighbors said. Ron calls me up and says, ‘What the bloody hell is goin' on, Charlie? There's a roaring bender goin'
full blast over at your place.' And he lives three cottages down, so I know whatever the fuck a bender is, it's somethin' loud enough to wake the dead, God rest ‘em. I says, ‘Don't worry, Ron, I'll take care of it.' And so I would. Got in the truck and came straight up here just as fast as I could. And I'm bleedin' glad too! Outta my way!”

Charlie whacked his cane at Jack's shins, then lurched past like a pirate walking with a peg leg. He shoved open the door and entered the cabin. Katrina and Jack followed. Looking around, Katrina wished she'd had time to clean up. Glasses and beer bottles were left haphazardly on every available surface. So too were paper plates stacked with leftover food. The table they'd brought from the kitchen to serve as the buffet was a mess. A pile of CDs was fanned out on the floor, next to a box of vinyl records someone had found and rifled through. A maze of dusty footprints led every which way. But it was the spot where Zach had broken his beer bottle that seemed to centerpiece the room. They'd picked up the larger pieces of glass and did their best to get all the smaller shards, then they'd soaked the beer out of the beech floor with a damp cloth. Katrina thought it would be fine in the morning, but at the moment the big dark puddle-shaped stain did not look fine at all. It looked like someone had urinated on the center of the floor.

“Mother of all hell!” Charlie exclaimed breathlessly, sounding like a man who'd just witnessed his own death. He cranked up the volume, “You've turned this place into a fuckin' pigpen!”

“I'd say that's a slight hyperbole,” Katrina said.

“Hyper what?” Charlie whirled on her. “You some college smart ass too? Sure you are, and these are all your whore friends. Just ‘cause you're young you think you got God's good grace to do any fuckin' thing you want. Well, I ain't going to take it. No sirree. I want you and all them friends of yours outta here. And don't you even think about askin' for your deposit back. Got that, sugar tits—”

Jack grabbed Charlie by the shoulder, pressing down on some pressure point. The old man cackled and bent sideways. With his
eyes bulging and his mouth gaping, he looked like a man in his death throes. “Watch what you say to the lady,” Jack warned him.

“Let him go, Jack!” Katrina said. “You're hurting him.”

Jack released his grip. Charlie stumbled free, bringing his hand up to massage his shoulder. “That's assault, you son of a bitch!” he gasped. “And don't think I ain't gonna report it. I am. Lock your ass up in the slammer. You'll probably like that, won't you, you big ape? Trade this bitch in for—”

This time Jack had Charlie by the throat. He marched him toward the front door, keeping him at arm's length, like he was a leaky bag of garbage. The old man tripped over his own feet as he was shoved backward. He swung his cane wildly, hitting Jack a couple times, but Jack didn't seem to notice.

“Jack!” Katrina said. “Where are you taking him?”

“Stay inside,” he told her over his shoulder. “I just want to have a little talk. Won't be a minute.”

Charlie gurgled something unintelligible.

“No, Jack,” she said. “Let him be. I'll go tell everyone to leave.”

He paused at the threshold to look back. “And what reason are you going to give?”

“I don't know. I'll think of something.”

“Wait here,” he said, and his tone left no room for debate. The door closed and he was gone from sight.

Katrina brought her hands to her mouth, forming a steeple. She took a deep breath, playing over the confrontation. Jack had manhandled Charlie. An old man. True, Charlie was sexist and vulgar. But that didn't give Jack the right to treat him the way he had. It had scared her. Especially after he'd done the same thing to Zach less than an hour earlier.

She shook her head. Later. She'd talk to him about it later. Right now she had to clean up the cabin. She hurried to the kitchen, grabbed a plastic bag, and began collecting all the empty bottles and dirty plates, wondering the entire time what Jack was talking to Charlie about, and what else could possibly go wrong.

The simple answer, she would soon find out: everything.

Jack strong-armed the struggling old man down the porch steps, all the way to the silver pickup truck. Charlie's eyes were wide and feral, showing something between fury and fear. When Jack figured he was far enough away from the cabin Katrina could not overhear him, he released his grip. This time old Charlie didn't have any fighting words. He doubled over, rubbed his throat, and tried to catch his sputtering, ailing breath. Jack grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and tugged him upright, so he could make eye contact. “I've been easy on you so far because there was a lady present,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “But it's just you and me now. And if I hear anything I don't like, I'm going to hurt you. Bad. Got that, compadre?”

Charlie glowered and rubbed his neck and didn't say anything.

“See, this night is special for me and my friend in there,” Jack went on. “And I don't want anything or anybody to ruin it for her, especially a dirty old prick like you. So this is what I'm going to do. You and I are going to walk over to my car, like two civilized human beings. I'm going to get my wallet and I'm going to give you an extra two hundred dollars for your trouble of coming all the way down here. And then you're going to get into that nice Ford F-150 of yours and you're going to drive back home and you're going to enjoy the rest of your evening while we enjoy ours. I'll talk to the guests on the dock and tell them to keep it down. And tomorrow I'll personally see to it that this place is as new as it can be. Now what do you say? Do we have ourselves a deal?”

For a moment Charlie seemed like he was about to say something, and by the look on his face, it wasn't going to be something
nice. But he reconsidered and began limping toward the Porsche. Jack joined him. The sound of Jim Morrison singing about a whiskey bar echoed up from the lake. Jack opened the sports car's front door, popped the glove compartment, and took out his wallet. As he was twisting out of the car, he saw the old man's cane slicing through the air. Pain exploded across his face in a firecracker show of blazing light. He staggered to one knee. The cane came again. This time down on the back of his skull. No stars. Just a soupy murkiness. He lost his balance and fell to his side.

“This ain't about no money, you goddamn monkey,” he heard Charlie say, though the old man's voice was small and seemed to be coming from a place very faraway. “It's about respect. Ain't your daddy ever teach you about that? But I do believe I deserve somethin' for haulin' ass all the way up here. Holy Jesus! Look-ee here! I'd say five hundred just about covers it. Now, I'm going to go tell all your no-class friends to get off my fuckin' property. And maybe, if you're lucky, one of ‘em will help you get your sorry ass together.”

Silence. Bolts of pain throbbed behind Jack's face. It felt like someone had shoved a handful of searing needles up his nose. He could taste gritty, coppery blood—blood mixed with dirt. He tried moving a hand. It responded. He brought it to the back of his head. A golf-ball-size lump. He felt his face. It was tender to the touch. Anger burned inside him, burned away the blackness. He opened his eyes and saw he was facedown in the mud. He summoned all of his strength to push himself to his feet. He stood straight, almost toppled over, didn't. His vision was swimming, but he could see enough to make out old Charlie, twenty feet away, heading for the dock. Jack started after him, almost delirious in his zest for payback. With each step his strength returned. By the time he was looming tall behind Charlie, his eyes were inhuman in their intensity and manic anticipation.

Charlie turned too late. “Oh shit no—”

He never finished. Jack's hand shot forward, fist open, so the heel of his palm connected squarely with Charlie's nose. Cartilage crunched, making a popping sound, like when you crack your
knuckles. Blood spurted. Charlie flew backward, lifted clear off his feet. He landed on his back, probably cracking one or two of his brittle bones in the process. Jack wasn't done with him. He wasn't thinking, wasn't able to stop himself. He stepped over to where Charlie lay in a crumpled heap and kicked him as hard as he could in the ribs. This time bones definitely broke, a whole bunch of them. He kicked again and again until the rib cage became soft and mushy. Charlie was moaning, spitting up blood, whole mouthfuls of it. One of those moans might have been a word, maybe a plea. Jack didn't know, didn't care. He was seeing red, in his own world. He kept kicking long after Charlie had ceased twitching.

Jack finally got ahold of himself. He stared down at the broken body frosted with moonlight, panting more from rage than exertion. The reality of what he'd done began to sink in. He felt for a pulse.

Charlie was dead.

Jack swore to himself. Then he swore again, louder. He looked to the cabin, half expecting Katrina to be standing on the porch, watching him in horror. She wasn't. He turned toward the dock. No one had come up. No one had seen what he'd done.

He heard something, leaflitter crackling. He snapped his head in the direction of the noise. The road disappeared into a copse of trees. All was quiet.

“Hello?” he said.

The only answer was the whistle of a breeze and the shiver of leaves.

Jack returned his attention to Charlie. He grabbed the old man by the scarecrow ankles and dragged him into the nearest bushes.

Katrina finished sweeping the floor, thinking the place looked respectable, almost how it had been earlier in the afternoon, minus the dark beer stain. That continued to stand out like a scratch on a new car two hours off the lot. But there was nothing to be done about it except to let it dry on its own. She set the broom aside and was about to go looking for her glass of wine when the door opened and Jack entered. She froze in total shock. His nose, mouth, and chin were dripping with blood. Crimson splotches stained his cashmere cardigan.

“Jack! Oh my God!” she cried. “Are you all right? What
happened
?”

He brushed past her and grabbed a bottle of bourbon off the buffet table. He filled a tumbler to the rim and knocked half of it back in a single mouthful.

“Talk to me, Jack. You're scaring me.”

“Bastard whacked me with his cane.” He finished the drink and poured another.

“Who? Charlie? For God's sake, why?”

“I tried to pay him off. Offered him two hundred bucks to go home. I went to the car to get my wallet. I was turning around, getting out, when—
bam
. The coward kinged me right in the face. Before I could clear the fuzz, he smashed me again, on the back of the head.”

Katrina was dumbstruck. “You need to go to the hospital. Dammit, where's my phone?”

She started to turn away when he grabbed her wrist. “You're not calling anyone.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Jack. Look at you! Your nose is likely broken.”

“Just fetch me my bag from the laundry, will you?”

He went to the bathroom to clean up. Katrina didn't move, a dozen questions screaming inside her head. She considered ordering him to go to the hospital with her, but she knew it would be futile. He would do what he wanted to do. She hurried to the laundry and retrieved the black overnight bag he'd brought with him. She set it on the middle of the living room floor and was unzipping it when the front door clattered open and Graham Douglas strolled in. At the same time Jack emerged from the bathroom, bare chested. He'd washed his face and looked better than he had before, but his nose was still a mess, leaking a rivulet of fresh blood.