And for a moment, my eyes flood with tears.
Except there’s a final message. One from Quincy. And if I thought Rainie’s hurt, this one knocks the wind right out of me.
We found your brother, Quincy’s message reads. Come home, Sharlah. He wants to speak to you.
Chapter 25
HE DIDN’T LIKE ME.
He sat at the table, in the chair next to Frank, trying to look relaxed, loose, college student home on spring break. But his gaze kept drifting to me next to the stove, where I was grating cheese to top the chicken Parm.
Checking out the new kid. The one who’d taken over his house, his parents, while he was off at school.
Henry definitely didn’t like me.
I kept my head down. Focused on the block of Parm, cheese grater. Sandra had asked me to help with dinner. Showing off the new kid’s tricks? Hell if I knew. I did as I was told, having been through this drill too many times to count. So many foster homes. Foster, birth, adopted siblings. Being hated was a rite of passage. Been there, done that.
In the kitchen, Sandra was all nervous energy. I hadn’t seen her like this since maybe my own first day at the house. She had salad going on. Garlic bread. All of her son’s favorite foods; that went without saying. And everything had to be perfect. I knew Sandra well enough by now to recognize the pressure she put on herself. Her son was home. With her foster son. First family dinner must be perfect, perfect, perfect.
Since our first cooking lesson, I had given Sandra more respect. So now I worked really hard on grating Parm.
Frank was happy. He sat at the table, a rare beer cracked open in front of him. Henry was going on and on about his classes. All computer-nerd this, engineering-geek that. I definitely didn’t understand anything. But Frank, being the science guy, nodded right along. Maybe this is who Henry got it from, because Frank asked questions. Then beamed at the answers, parental pride practically radiating off of him.
I grated a little too hard. Caught my thumb. I moved discreetly to the sink to rinse off the blood before Sandra realized what I’d just added to her Parmesan cheese.
“Telly, what happened to you? Did you cut yourself?” Too late. She was already at my side, grabbing my thumb, inspecting the damage.
“I’m fine.”
“Nonsense. Frank, we need a Band-Aid. Go grab a Band-Aid.”
Frank obediently pushed back from the table, meandering down the hall. “We have Band-Aids? Where are they? Closet, bathroom?”
“Oh, Frank, how can you not know where the Band-Aids are?”
Sandra headed down the hall after Frank, leaving Henry and me alone in the kitchen. I kept my thumb under the water, gaze forward.
From the table, Henry wasn’t feeling so subtle. “Preparing for your future in food service?” he drawled.
I didn’t say anything. Why bother? He’d be on his way again. Back to college. And by the time we hit summer, who knew if I’d even still be around? There was only so much cooking and shooting a boy could do, right? Not to mention it was pretty clear by now I’d be spending most of June and July in summer school.
Henry pushed his chair back. Walked around the table toward me.
Standing at the kitchen sink, I felt myself tense. Frank was a big boy and so was his son. Tall, at least. But maybe not as experienced in a fight.
So this is how it would be, then. He’d push till I exploded. Then Frank and Sandra would return to find their two “boys” brawling in the middle of the kitchen. At which point, of course, they’d rush to their son’s side. Henry the golden child.
Good news was, maybe I wouldn’t have to worry about summer school after all. I’d already be gone.
I turned off the faucet. Reached for a paper towel to wrap around my shredded thumb. Strained for sounds of Frank’s and Sandra’s return footsteps down the hall.
“What are you doing here?” Henry stood behind me, his voice low in my ear.
“Cooking dinner.”
“Gonna earn their trust? Is that the deal? Be a good little monkey, then rob them blind the minute they’re not looking?”
My probation officer, Aly, had been talking to me about techniques for managing my temper. I tried frantically to remember some of them now. Except I didn’t have my iPod handy to drown out Henry’s taunts with earbuds.
“Come on. Look around. My parents are hardworking, modest folks. Even the computer is five years old and not suitable for anything other than the junkyard. Whatever you’re thinking, this is not the house. My parents are not the people.”
“Your parents are nice,” I heard myself say. A surprise for both of us.
“What?”
“Your parents. They’re nice.”
Henry stared at me. I found the courage to turn around, stare back.
“I don’t have your future. Maybe I don’t have any future. But your parents, they’re trying to help me figure it out. That’s ‘suitable’ for more than the junkyard.”
Henry frowned at me. Still trying to decide if I was for real or not. Maybe I was, too.
Then, from behind him, a discreet cough.
We discovered Frank and Sandra back in the kitchen, watching both of us.
“Well, now that that’s out of the way . . . ,” Frank said.
Henry flushed. Sandra giggled nervously, and that seemed to break the ice. Henry and Frank returned to the table. Sandra and I returned to dinner prep.
“You never could share your toys,” Frank told his son.
Henry didn’t argue.
—
NEXT DAY, Frank decided the boys should go shooting. We headed to the redneck range, armed with a small arsenal, targets, folding table, and protective eye and ear wear. Upon arrival, I went to work on the folding table. Frank and Henry prepped the guns.
Henry was talking to his father, voice low, as if he didn’t want me to hear.
“Is Mom’s dad still alive?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I am. Yes or no. Do I have a maternal grandfather or not?”
Frank stilled at the sharp tone. I drifted closer. Sounded to me like Henry was asking for a smackdown. I didn’t want to miss it.
“I believe he’s still alive. Your mother hasn’t said otherwise.”
“But you’ve never spoken to him.”
“You know your mother had her reasons for leaving.”
“Which were?”
“Her story to tell, Henry. Now, why all these questions?”
Henry removed the pistol from its case, racked it back to show the empty chamber, then placed it on the table. I made a show of picking up the first target, heading toward the battered wooden pallet to pin it up. Walking away, but not too far away.
I knew Sandra’s father was alive. At least I had assumed so. Mean guy. Killed people for money, was my impression. So good at it, he’d risen up the levels, was maybe now the master mobster himself. Was it possible I knew something Henry didn’t? Sandra trusted me that much?
“This old guy showed up,” Henry said now. “Couple of weeks ago. Was waiting for me after class. Just standing there, staring straight at me. And the crazy thing is that I immediately had a sense of déjà vu. That I’d met him before.”
Frank didn’t say anything.
“He said he was my grandpa. Said he wanted to get to know me. Invited me to dinner next week.”
“What?” Now Frank’s voice was sharp. The wooden pallet was riddled with thumbtacks. I pulled out a blue one, used it to secure the target, not daring to turn around. “Did you say yes?”
“Maybe. Come on. The old guy . . . He looks so much like Mom. Like . . . part of my family. You think I don’t have questions? You think you wouldn’t want to know more about your own grandfather?”
“Your mom hears about this, she’ll have a fit.”
“Well I’m not exactly asking her about it, am I? I came to you for a reason.”
“Henry . . . you can’t do this. Tell the guy no. What do you hope to get out of this anyway? An extra gift at Christmas? You’ve made it this long without a grandfather. Don’t destroy your mom by starting this relationship now.”
“Why would it destroy her? Won’t someone please tell me what this guy did?”
“Your mom ran away at sixteen. Left behind everything to live on the street. Doesn’t that tell you enough?”
“What if he’s changed? He definitely looks older than dirt. Hell, maybe he’s dying. Wants one last chance to make amends before he goes.”
“He’s a lying bastard—”
“So you have met him?”
“Your mother doesn’t want him back in her life! That’s all I need to know, and all you need to know. You think he isn’t aware of that as well? You think there isn’t a reason he showed up at your college campus instead of on our front porch? Think about that for a second. If this guy is so anxious to make peace, why isn’t he reaching out to your mom?”
“Maybe because she’s an even better shot than you are.”
This was news to me. Still holding up the target, my back to Frank and Henry, I blinked my eyes.
“Telly,” Frank barked.
Belatedly, I stuck a second tack in the bottom of the target, then made a big show of jogging back.
“You heard.”
I didn’t say anything, because Frank hadn’t asked a question. He sighed. Ran a hand through his graying hair. I’d never seen Frank so agitated.
“Of course you heard,” he muttered now. “If I was in your place, I’d eavesdrop on everything, too. Henry, describe your grandfather. Everything about him. Go.”
Henry opened his mouth, looked like he was about to argue further, then shut it again. “Five foot ten,” he said at last. “Steel-gray hair, thin at the top. Mom’s eyes.” He seemed to relish that phrase. “Moves a bit like her, too. Tan trench coat, brown polyester pants and button-up shirt. Kind of old guy one-oh-one. But you’ll know him when you see him. He looks . . .” Henry shrugged. “He looks like an old-guy version of Mom.”
“You see this guy,” Frank informed me in a clipped voice, “anywhere on our property, you call me. Right away. If he approaches our house, makes any move to speak to Sandra, shoot first, question later. Trust me, a violent death for this guy is hardly gonna raise any suspicions.”
“Who is he?” Henry asked again.
I didn’t say anything but moved slightly closer to Henry. At this point, I wanted to know, too.
“David,” Frank offered up suddenly. “David Michael Martin. You want to know more, try Googling him. But don’t be surprised when nothing comes up. Guys like him . . . He’s spent his whole life making sure he doesn’t exist. Not on paper, and certainly not on the Internet.”
“What do you mean he doesn’t exist? How can a guy not exist?”
Frank thinned his lips. “He’s trouble. That’s all you need to know. He’s the kind of guy that wherever he goes, death follows.”
Henry made a face. “He’s an old geezer. I saw him with my own eyes. Whatever he once did . . . He’s an old man now, looking to make amends. Shouldn’t that count for something?”
“You’re a good kid,” Frank said abruptly, staring at his son. And he wasn’t just throwing out the words. He meant them. “Smart, enrolled in a top computer program. So where was your grandpa fifteen, ten, five years ago? I can give you the answer: He was nowhere. Because at those ages, you weren’t as potentially useful to him.”
Henry studied his father. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Guys like David . . . He doesn’t make amends, Henry. He manipulates. Meaning, if he’s reaching out, it’s because you have something he wants.”
“Forgiveness.”
“Don’t be stupid. He doesn’t even know you. What would your forgiveness mean to him? On the other hand, your degree, your smarts, your reputation with computers . . . Now, that’s interesting. Next generation of crime is all about the Internet. A kid like you could be very useful to him. The fact that you’re family, all the better.”
“You think he’s recruiting me? For, like, the family business?”
“Why wouldn’t he? And I’ll tell you now, he’ll use all the right terms. Tell you everything you want to hear. You don’t live as long as he has without knowing how to be very, very good. But at the end of the day, evil is evil. He damn near destroyed your mom. If you let him in your life, he’ll do the same to you. And he won’t lose a moment’s sleep over it. Once you’ve lost a daughter, what’s a grandson? That’s the kind of man he is, Henry. I’m giving it to you straight.”
Henry looked at him. “You want me to cancel dinner.”
“Your mother has never gone back. For the past thirty years, not so much as a phone call home. She gave up her own mother, Henry. To keep herself safe. And then, after you were born, to keep you safe, too. That should tell you enough right there.”
Henry didn’t say anything.
“He let her go,” I said suddenly. Because this bothered me, had been bothering me.
Both Frank and Henry stared at me.
“You’re saying he’s some big bad worst of the worst. But his sixteen-year-old daughter walked away and he just let her.” I’d tried asking this question of Sandra but hadn’t understood her answer. Now I could see from the expression on Frank’s face that he understood my point immediately. Henry, however, was still frowning.
“My father,” I heard myself say, “if he wanted something and you had it . . . He wouldn’t just let go. He wouldn’t let you take it.”
Henry gave me a look. I could tell it was all he could do to not sneer, offer me a baseball bat.
Frank’s gaze, however, was much more assessing. “There are questions,” Frank said at last, speaking to me, not Henry, “I don’t ask my wife.”
I nodded.
“It’s not that I don’t think I know what those answers are. It’s that I understand it’s better that she never have to put them into words.”
Meaning that Sandra had done something. She hadn’t just walked away, as the PG, Henry-approved version of the tale went. She’d done something. Perhaps as terrible as beating someone to death with a baseball bat. And that bought her freedom. Maybe even made her think about taking on a kid like me.
I felt something then. A rush of emotion. More than gratitude. Maybe love for my new foster mom, or at least the sixteen-year-old girl she’d once been.
“Oh for God’s sake,” Henry said, “next you’re going to tell me Mom’s a secret assassin.”
Frank held the silence just long enough for Henry’s eyes to widen. Then he burst into a smile. “Yeah, your mom. Killing them with kindness.”
Henry guffawed. I let them have their fun. But I thought I’d learned something about my foster mom, the secret ace shot, who had more in common with me than her own child. Then I had a second thought, more disquieting than the first. If Sandra had done something once to buy her freedom, what had changed that her father would show up at her son’s college now?
But the mood had passed, both Frank and Henry returning their attention to the handguns.
Frank had gotten out the ammo. Now Henry was lining up the first shot with the twenty-two.
Henry was good, almost as good as Frank. Then it was my turn, and though I hated having Henry’s eyes upon me, I did okay. I liked the pistol. The rifle still felt awkward. But the Ruger was starting to feel more and more natural in my hand.
Frank ended with a few of his tricks. Then Henry got into the spirit of the game. They shot at shell cases. Turned the paper target sideways. Even took turns seeing who could shoot pinecones off tree branches. Then practiced moving three paces left, drawing, and firing. Three paces right, boom, boom, boom. br />
They relaxed, and for a moment, I had this surreal feeling. Father-and-son bonding. It did exist. And this is what it looked like.
Then I remembered walking my little sister to the library. Reading her Clifford the Big Red Dog. Brother-and-sister bonding. It had existed, too. And that’s what it had felt like.
I wondered what Sharlah might be doing right now. Where she lived. Did she like her foster parents? Was she happy?
I closed my eyes, shut it all down. Because it was either that or pass out from the tightness in my chest.
Time to clean up. I put away the guns. Henry folded up the table. Frank packed the truck. No one spoke.
On the way home, Frank broke the silence. He spoke a single sentence:
“Not one word of this to your mother.”
Henry and I nodded.
Chapter 26
SHELLY GOT THE LEAD straight from Henry Duvall. She’d wanted to pay the man a visit, quiz him further about his personal timeline and/or family history. But now, given the ticking clock, she settled for a simple phone call. Did your father have a favorite, semisecret campsite? Which turned out to be a yes. Right off the same route Telly Ray Nash had driven north toward the EZ Gas.
Next step: recon.
“I don’t want any more surprises,” Shelly stated. They were back in central command. Herself, Cal, Quincy, the other search team leaders. “When we declared this suspect armed and dangerous, we weren’t kidding.”
“Choppers,” Quincy suggested. “Have one buzz over the target campsite, see if the IR unit picks out any thermal readings. That would tell us if the campsite is already occupied.”
Shelly sighed heavily.
Cal did the honors: “Infrared’s not working,” he supplied, looking at the sheriff. “Or, to be more accurate, generating too many false positives.”
“It’s very hot out,” Shelly said.
Cal translated for the other team members: “One of the drawbacks to IR technology—sun heats up a lot of things: rocks, water in broadleaf trees. Temperatures like this, whole landscape lights up bright red. Kind of like Vegas.”