Will wondered if Tony was leading him to the middle of nowhere to kill him. The man didn’t seem capable of murder, but Will had been surprised before. Death generally didn’t announce itself. He’d bet the forty-three-year-old entrepreneur who died on the toilet last week wasn’t planning on being found with his pants down.
A small lighted sign announced the entrance to a trailer park. Palm trees surrounded the flowing script announcing the compound’s name. The place was well tended, obviously catering to families. Children’s bicycles were stacked neatly in front of porches. All the trashcans had been collected from the road. Cars were parked evenly in their spaces. He could see the soft glow of televisions behind drawn curtains.
The road doubled up again as the trailer park disappeared in Will’s side mirror. He squinted up ahead. Tony’s hand was raised in the air. He was snapping his fingers to the music. George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex.” A song like that could get a man killed this far from civilization, but Will guessed Tony didn’t care.
Suddenly, the dirt road gave onto a paved street. The bike kicked up. Luckily, Will wasn’t going fast, otherwise he would’ve taken a vault over the handlebars.
Streetlights illuminated every inch of the paved surface. Foundations had been poured for hundreds of houses, but the builder had either run out of money or run out of town. Probably both. Plumbing pipes and drains stuck up from the poured slabs like toothpicks. Incongruously, some of the driveways had mailboxes but no houses. Others had weeds breaking through the white concrete sidewalks.
Cayla Martin’s was one of four completed houses at the end of a cul-de-sac. Macon wasn’t the only city in America that had its share of abandoned subdivisions, but Cayla’s had a particular sadness about it. The lawn was overgrown with weeds. The one sad tree by the front door was bent and dying. No one had cared about this house from the very beginning. The trim paint was peeling where the wood had not been primed. Some of the windows had been installed crookedly. Even the front door had a strange tilt like no one had bothered to plumb it in. Will wondered if the builder was related to the lazy jackass who’d worked on Sara’s apartment.
Tony Dell pulled into a short driveway, parking the truck behind a black Toyota. The door opened. Tony practically fell out of the truck. The F-250 was too big for him, like a kid clomping around in his daddy’s shoes. Tony had the same jaunty gait as he approached Will in the semidarkness. “Damn, Bud, ain’t your balls freezin’ on that thing?”
Will shrugged, though the man was right about the cold. He nodded toward the truck. “Where’d you get that?”
“Borrowed it from a friend.”
“Nice friend,” Will noted. The truck was a considerable step up from Tony’s impounded Kia.
“Hope you weren’t plannin’ nothin’ romantic tonight.” Tony tucked his hands into his pockets as he walked toward the house. “I kinda invited myself over. Cayla’s gotta faucet been leakin’ for a while, so I said I’d come by and fix it.”
“She knows you’re going to be here?”
“Sure,” Tony said, but his voice went up a bit higher than honesty would dictate. “You get off work early?”
“Little bit.” His boss was six months from retirement and had a lady on the side. Will was about to say something derogatory about Salemi’s work habits, but then Tony Dell stood under the porch light and Will was rendered speechless.
The man had gotten the shit kicked out of him. There was no better description. His nose was sideways. Both eyes were bruised. A long, open gash on his cheek had been sewn shut with thick black stitches.
Tony smiled, despite the pain it must’ve caused. “Cop caught up with me.”
“Vickery?” Will guessed. He’d joked about it with Faith before, but now that he saw Paul Vickery’s handiwork, it wasn’t funny. “What the hell happened?”
“We’re cool, Bud.” Tony held up his hands in defense. “I didn’t tell him a damn thing. I think that ol’ boy just needed to give somebody a beat-down. Coulda been you. Ended up bein’ me.”
Will couldn’t believe the man’s cavalier attitude. “You gonna file a report on him?”
He practically guffawed. “Shit, that’s funny, Bud. Like they work for us or somethin’.” He raised his hand to knock on the door. “Act like you invited me, all right?”
“Like—”
Cayla had a huge grin on her face when she opened the door. And then she saw Tony Dell and looked like she wanted to murder him. “What’re you doin’ here?”
“Bud invited me.” He patted Will on the back. “Didn’t you, Bud?”
Will mumbled, “Yeah.”
Cayla didn’t seem concerned that Tony had been beaten. She sneered at him, saying, “You sneaky little prick.”
“Aw, don’t be like that.” Tony pushed himself into the house. He had to slither under Cayla’s arm to do it.
For the first time since he’d met Tony Dell, Will was glad to have the little freak around. Cayla had obviously prepared for their date. Her makeup was so heavy that it clumped in the corners of her eyes. Her jeans cut her into two separate parts and her white lace blouse clearly showed the dark purple bra underneath. Even from the porch, Will could smell her perfume. He didn’t know enough about these things to guess whether the scent was cheap or not, but going by how much she used, Will hoped she got a volume discount.
Tony made a show of sniffing the air. “Damn, girl, you smell pretty.”
“Shut up, Tony. I told you not to talk to me that way.” She gave Will a tightly coiled smile as she motioned him inside. “He’s my brother.”
“Stepbrother,” Tony corrected. He winked at Will. “Not by blood.”
Cayla groaned as she shut the door. “His daddy married my mama when we were in junior high. Ever since then, he’s been a sticky turd I can’t scrape off my shoe.”
Tony’s laugh said he took this as a compliment.
Will grunted, not out of any Bill Black response but because he was at a complete loss for words.
“You look nice,” Cayla said, though Will had specifically dressed down for the occasion. His jeans were torn at the hem. His blue Oxford shirt had been nice two years ago, but the collar was frayed. The black T-shirt he wore underneath had holes in the armpits.
“You wanna beer?” Cayla asked.
“I’m good.” Will didn’t drink or smoke, which presented a serious handicap as far as his con cred was concerned. “Maybe later.” Tony said, “I could do with a cold one.”
“Then get your scrawny ass back in that truck and go get you one,” Cayla suggested. Tony grumbled a response. They certainly talked to each other like brother and sister.
Will looked around the room as he waited out the argument. The house was clean if not tidy. Cayla liked her figurines. Large dolls in fancy dresses were on almost every available surface. Some were under glass like wheels of cheese. Others were on stands that helped them hold up umbrellas or push baby carriages. Cayla had decorated everything in pastels, mostly pinks and blues. A large flat-screen television took pride of place across from a baby blue sectional sofa.
The fight was over. Or at least Tony seemed to think so. He hurdled the back of the sofa and plopped down in front of the set. “We gonna eat out here? I think the game’s coming on.”
“You can eat out here by your damn self.” Cayla motioned for Will to follow her, telling him, “Just so you know next time, I prefer it’s just me and you.”
Will grunted as he trailed her into the kitchen. The house was choppy, which was strange for a new build. The wall bisecting the kitchen and family room looked taped into place. The saloon doors in the middle weren’t even on the same plane. At least an inch separated the top edges, like blocks in a game of Tetris.
“We can eat in here.” Cayla held open one of the saloon doors.
Will glanced around the kitchen, which was small and crowded but smelled so good he felt his stomach start to weep. Even the stench of a cigarette burning in the ashtray couldn’t hi
de the delicious aroma of fried chicken, biscuits, and some kind of sweet cobbler.
“You hungry?”
Will nodded. His mouth was too filled with drool to answer. Sara could do a lot of things, but she could not cook to save her life.
“I told you I gotta good scald on some chicken.” Cayla took down a plate from the cabinet. There were pots warming on the stove. She picked up a spoon and started to fill the plate.
Will sat down at the table.
She asked, “You hear that cop’s not doing good?” Will didn’t answer.
“Got an infection or something. Went into septic shock.”
Will tried to keep her talking. “What’s that mean?”
“Means he’s got blood poisoning.” She took her cigarette from the ashtray as she placed the heaping plate of food in front of Will. Fried chicken, green beans, black-eyed peas, mashed potatoes and gravy, and two biscuits perilously balanced on top.
She put the cigarette to her lips and inhaled deeply. “Sepsis happens a lot with surgeries. They got all those tubes going in and out of them. Bacteria gets into the bloodstream. The heart can’t take it. Poison floods through the body, shuts it all down.”
He noticed her grammar had suddenly improved. Cayla Martin seemed to have an accent for every occasion. “Sounds bad.”
She took another long drag before stubbing out the cigarette. “Yeah, it can be. You want that beer now?”
Will nodded. “Is he going to make it?”
“The cop?” She was at the refrigerator. She looked back over her shoulder. Underneath all the makeup, Cayla Martin wasn’t unattractive. She seemed to have that weird quality that made otherwise smart men do stupid things. “He might make it. He’s young. Pretty strong. Why do you care?”
Will shrugged as he picked up his fork. “I don’t.”
The saloon doors opened. Tony eyed them suspiciously. His jealousy was like a lighthouse beacon scanning the room.
Cayla gave him a nasty look. “I thought you were watching the game.”
“I bet you did.” Tony walked into the kitchen with his hands clenched. He told Will, “I heard you were up there today. In the ICU.”
Will took a big bite of peas. The bacon grease and salt caressed his taste buds.
Tony asked, “She recognize you?” Will glanced at Cayla.
“It’s all right.” She popped open the beer and put the can in front of Will. “He tells me everything whether I wanna hear it or not.”
“The cop,” Tony pushed. He was just as changeable as his stepsister. Suddenly, he was sounding less like a nuisance and more like a criminal.
Will let some time pass before answering. “What about the cop?”
“She recognize you?”
“No.” Will shoveled another mound of peas into his mouth. And because there was some space left in his cheeks, he crammed in half a biscuit to help soak up the grease.
Tony pulled back a chair from the table. He sat down a few feet away, arms crossed, legs spread. His injuries were more pronounced in the harsh kitchen light. The gash on his face would leave a bad scar.
Tony said, “That was smart thinking, Bud. Make sure she don’t recognize you. Make sure we don’t gotta problem.”
Will struggled to swallow. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t have a problem.”
Cayla laughed. Just as quickly, her expression turned dark. “What are you doing down here?”
Will turned around. There was a little boy standing in the doorway. His hair was a mess. His pajamas were too big for his spindly body. He clutched a picture book to his chest. The material seemed a little young for him, but Will was hardly an expert.
“Shit,” Cayla cursed. “What did I tell you about staying upstairs?”
The boy opened his mouth to speak, but she didn’t let him answer.
“I told you you’d get hungry.” She got up from the table to fix another plate. She introduced the kid to Will: “This’n’s Benji, my sister’s kid. Benji, this is Mr. Black.”
“Her real sister,” Tony amended. He pushed his chair back until it touched the counter. Benji wouldn’t go near him. He took the long way around, sitting opposite Will with the book in his lap.
“Here.” Cayla plopped down a plate that was considerably less generous than the portions she gave Will. She asked Tony, “I guess I gotta feed you, too?”
“Gimme one a them breasts.” He grabbed at her, giggling like it was a game.
Cayla slapped away his hands. “Jesus, Tony.” She turned back to the stove, muttering to herself.
Will looked at Benji, who was staring down at his lap. Will tried not to be too obvious as he studied the boy. He had a familiar look about him, like he expected at any moment that something bad was going to happen. His shoulders were rolled inward. He kept his head bowed. His ears practically rotated as he listened for a change in tone, an indication of danger. Will recognized the survival tactic. When adults got mad, kids usually ended up being collateral damage.
Will asked Benji, “Are you from Macon?”
Rather than answering, the kid looked at his aunt.
Cayla supplied, “Baton Rouge. At least that’s where they were this last time. His mama’s on the pipe. Can’t break the habit. The po-po found ’em livin’ in her car.” She rested her hand on Benji’s bony shoulder. Will would’ve missed the flinch if he hadn’t been watching.
Cayla said, “I couldn’t let ’em put Benji in a home again. Last time, he near about got killed. And I mean real killed, not just pushed around.”
Will guessed Benji knew all of this, but he didn’t like that the kid was hearing it again. He asked Benji, “How old are you?”
This time, he answered himself, showing Will nine fingers.
“What’s that book you’re reading?”
Benji held up the book. Will couldn’t read the cursive letters, but the C at the beginning and the smiling monkey told him he was looking at Curious George. The book had obviously been read a lot. The pages were dog-eared. The cover was worn. Will wondered if something was wrong with the boy. “Which school do you go to?”
Benji returned the book to his lap. He stared down at his hands.
Cayla blew out a put-upon sigh. “What’s gotten into you, child? Tell him where you go to school.”
Benji’s voice was squeaky. “I’m in Miss Ward’s fourth-grade class at Barden Elementary School on Anderson Drive.”
Will gave a low whistle, as if he was impressed. “That sounds like a nice school. Do you like it there?”
The boy’s slender shoulders went up in a shrug.
“What’s your favorite subject?”
He glanced at Cayla, but before she could answer for him, Benji said, “Math.”
“I like math, too,” Will said, which was actually true. Numbers had offered a respite, some sort of weird proof that despite Will’s inability to read like the other kids, there was at least one thing he could do right.
“Fractions,” Benji whispered. “My mom does them with me.” He looked up at Will, his eyes moist with tears. The fluorescent bulbs made the corners glow. He looked so desperate that Will couldn’t meet his gaze.
“Eat up, hon.” Cayla pushed Benji’s plate closer. She’d given him a spoonful of peas, a biscuit, and a chicken leg. The meal didn’t seem like enough, but Benji didn’t complain. He didn’t start eating, either. He seemed to be waiting for permission.
Will picked up the large piece of fried chicken Cayla had smothered in gravy. She was right about her scalding skills. The crispy skin practically melted in his mouth. Too bad he wasn’t hungry anymore.
Will had seen a lot of shell-shocked kids passing through the Atlanta Children’s Home, but Benji was the loneliest child he’d ever shared a table with. He resonated at a different frequency. His movements were stilted. His expression was a mask of neutrality, but his eyes—there wasn’t a nine-year-old on the planet who had yet mastered concealing the kind of pain Will read in Benji’s eyes.
&
nbsp; He missed his mother. She had obviously neglected him, likely abused him, but he still needed his mom. She’d helped him with his fractions. Maybe she’d worked on the rest of his homework, too. She’d undoubtedly moved him around a lot, staying one step ahead of child welfare services because even crack whores didn’t want to admit that they were bad mothers.
Benji’s lack of accent was the big giveaway. He’d probably never stayed one place long enough to pick one up. He sounded better educated than the three adults in the house. He had better table manners, too. He used his fork and knife to peel away the skin on the chicken leg.
Tony snorted. “Where’d you learn them airs, boy?”
“Leave him be,” Cayla shot back. She moderated her tone as she asked Will, “You like working at the hospital?”
Will nodded and talked with his mouth full. “How long have you been there?”
“About five years,” she answered, which was a lie. Cayla’s tax records had her working part-time for several different doctors before landing the pharmacy job six months ago. Even then, she still rotated in and out of the offices on her off days, probably to help pay her DUI fine. And pay for a house with a mortgage that was so far underwater she could see China from her front porch.
She said, “The hospital’s all right. I like the pharmacy hours. With Benji here, I’ve gotta be home when school’s out.”
Benji stiffened, as if he was surprised to hear the news.
“How long has he been living with you?” Will asked.
“This time?” She shrugged. “I guess a couple of weeks or so. Ain’t that right, Benji?”
“A month,” Benji told Will. He probably had a calendar in his head where he marked each day. His voice was quieter when he said, “They took me away a month ago.”
Tony offered, “I been at the hospital a year. Can’t say I like it. Cleaning up shit and puke all day. People treatin’ me like I’m the help.”
Cayla’s face creased with an angry frown. “Then why don’t you go back to Beaufort, with the rest of the Geechees?”