Chapter 2
Russell pulled to a stop at Mike’s ramshackle house on Peach Street. In the front yard, a large American oak with low sweeping branches held the structure up like a deformed marionette. The building’s foundation bowed under the weight of the load on top of it.
"Bye, Rusty!" O’Brien shouted, jumping from the truck to the ground. Before Russell could say bye back, Mike had slammed the door on him.
Russell watched the gangly kid run up the trampled dirt path. At the last second, instead of stepping onto the battered, gray porch, Mike veered right, knelt, and stuck his head underneath the sinking house. A minute later, the bulldog came waddling out. Mike kissed the dog’s flat, slobbering face, then began to playfully wrestle with it under the shade of the ancient oak. Huey, a varicolored English Bulldog, clearly was as ecstatic to see Mike as Mike was to see him, for he grunted and snorted in syncopation with his master, both of them trying to pin the other but not really trying too hard lest the game end too soon. And though the daylight was nearly spent and the boy and the dog were stirring up a cloud of dust around them, Russell noticed a thread of drool slip from Huey’s mouth and into Mike’s eye.
Russell saw it all too clearly.
Then deciding he’d seen enough, Russell pulled away from the curb. It was no big secret that Mike was fond of Huey—maybe too fond—but Russell (and others) sometimes wondered what kind of twisted, sordid things Mike could possibly be doing to, and with, his dog when no one was around to watch or judge him. Russell’s imagination was already rich and expansive, but when the subject of Mike O’Brien came up, the ideas and images tended to work their way to the surface and spread like wildfire. And while thinking those thoughts, another part of his brain would speak up, would practically scream: It’s not physically possible! Shame on you for even thinking that about sweet, innocent, tow-headed Mike! And he would immediately feel guilty for having a mind that could think that way, for having a mind that always pictured the worst in a person instead of the best. Then he’d silently chastise himself, and days, sometimes weeks, later he would pay his karmic debt to Mike by being extra nice to him, or by singling him out for praise in front of Hector and Pete. But even while doing those things, the scenarios would keep playing out in his fertile mind. Because it just might be possible.
Russell cranked the radio up. An Allman Brothers song crackled and hissed through the stereo speakers. He turned the radio off and slid a Red Hot Chili Peppers CD into the dash. Decent radio reception was rare in Riley, though every now and then, usually during a solar flare or some other unusual atmospheric event, the FM stations out of Montgomery came through clear and strong. Most of the time, however, the choices were either farm reports out of Greenville, country music transmitted from God-knows-where, or a hypertensive evangelist yelling about the saving power of JEEESUS and of a greater hell designated for the sinners of the world who refuse to repent against their wicked ways of drinking, fornication, and rational thought.
If there was a good neighborhood in Riley (and in a town that small there really wasn’t a good or a bad neighborhood), then Russell Whitford lived in it. And Peter Oscowitz lived in it as well. It was definitely the swankiest neighborhood—one consisting of a single street running parallel to the main drag. Theirs was a street that housed the mayor, the sheriff, and most of Butler County’s wealthier progeny. Stately oaks lined the quarter-mile stretch of road, creating a dense canopy under which Lexuses and Cadillacs could frequently be sighted rolling into long, gated driveways. The houses weren’t ostentatiously large, but they were tall. All had at least two stories. Some had three. Most were built in a style reminiscent of old plantation manors. Though few had porticos, some did, and for some reason the people who lived in those houses tended to act superior to those who lived in houses without giant white columns on their porches. Russell (whose house didn’t have porticos) didn’t see how it mattered one way or the other, but he did see that to some people it mattered immensely.
Diane Whitford was stirring a pot of pasta from behind the kitchen’s marble island when her son came in through the back door.
"Where have you been?" she asked before the door had a chance to click shut behind him.
Russell tossed his keys on the table, sat down, and said, "Hector’s. Sorry I didn’t call."
"You should have called." She looked over Russell’s head, then lowered her gaze until her brown eyes met his hazel ones. "Are you hungry?"
"Not really," Russell replied, fiddling with his keys. "Ate at Hector’s."
Diane exhaled slowly. "What have I told you about doing that? Your father and I think you’re spending too much time over there."
"No, I’m not. It’s just one day a week, when Hector barbeques."
“I still don’t like you going over there. I don’t like Hector, and I don’t like his mother."
Russell tapped his keys on the table. "Are you going to start up with that shit again? Hector’s fine, and there’s nothing wrong with his mom, despite what you may have heard at one of your little cotillions, or wherever it is you go to get your gossip."
Diane tilted her chin in mock indignation. Staring over the top of his head again, she said, "First off, I don’t like you using that language, and second, my sources are very reliable. And third,"—she paused for effect—"a cotillion is a dance thrown for teenage girls." The corners of her mouth rose to a smile.
Russell shook his head and turned away, afraid that if he looked at her too long he would smile, too. Also, he wanted to show her how serious he was about her disparaging the Grahams.
Then from out of nowhere, a hot, wet noodle slapped across the breadth of his face, startling him and nearly sending him flying out of his chair. By the boiling pot, Diane laughed short, girly giggles, a large wooden spoon held high over her head.
"Gotcha!"
"You’re crazy," Russell said, not looking at her.
"Takes one to know one. How was work today?"
"As lame as ever. I wasn’t even supposed to go in, but Busby called and told me I needed to come in ‘cause Lucas called in sick—again. The only call we got was from the Drummond farm to fix a burned-out AC motor—they have central. It took most of the day, but when I got back, Busby let me leave early since there wasn’t jack-shit to do at the shop."
"Have you heard anything about the burn ban?" Diane asked.
"Actually, yeah. I ran into Price while I was leaving for work—or Price ran into me, I should say. He was packing his truck for this big deep sea fishing trip he’s got going this weekend, and he kind of wandered over into our driveway like he does sometimes and told me all about it. He said it has to go through the fire commission before it’s official, but it looks like they’re going to pass it in a couple of days. Monday, if I had to guess."
"Bye-bye barbeque."
Russell shook his head. "Funny you should say that, because when I told Hector about it, he said he was going to keep on grilling—burn ban or not. I believe him, too."
Diane turned and opened the refrigerator. "I don’t like that boy."