Authors: Harry Hunsicker
- CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO -
Sarah wipes the Spyderco on Milky Eye’s shirt and tosses the knife into the Dumpster.
Then she plunges down the alley, heading away from the bodies of the two homeless men, trying to escape from all that she is and all that she will become.
She has no phone or weapon. She’s dressed like she’s going to the yacht club. Her only child is undergoing surgery at this very moment.
At the end of the alley, she stops. She’s sweating, breath coming in heaves.
Across the street is a decrepit strip mall housing a tattoo shop, a store that sells electronic cigarettes, and a medical supply company.
She has to get out of sight.
The two bodies will be found, sooner rather than later. Even though the victims were homeless, not usually a high priority for the authorities, there were two of them, both with their throats cut in broad daylight.
The police will have to investigate. Soon the alley will be full of ambulances and homicide detectives. The trail she’s left is too big, too many markers pointing back to her.
She waits until her breathing slows, then walks into the tattoo shop.
A woman in her twenties is behind the counter. The woman is wearing a tank top to better accentuate the ink covering her arms, a green-and-red floral pattern that gives the feeling of an album cover from the 1960s—peace and love and patchouli.
Sarah and the woman are the only people in the store. The walls are covered with silk screens showing various tattoo designs.
“Can I help you?” The woman lights some incense.
“I need to borrow a phone, if I could.”
The woman stares at Sarah, taking in her white blouse covered in alley grime and sweat.
“I’m happy to pay you.” Sarah reaches into her purse, pulls out a twenty.
“Are you okay?” A concerned look on the woman’s face.
“I had a flat tire,” Sarah says. “I tried to change it myself.”
The woman doesn’t speak.
“Of course I left my cell on the charger at home.” Sarah rolls her eyes. “I’m always doing that.”
“Here.” The woman slides a landline across the top of the counter. “You don’t need to pay me.”
“Thank you.” Sarah dials Elias’s number.
She could call the person she reached out to last night, or Walden, but with two dead bodies behind her, there’s a limit to how involved she wants a non-family-member to be.
After a long time, Elias answers the phone with a wary hello.
“It’s your sister,” Sarah says. “I have a flat tire. I need you to pick me up.”
Silence.
The woman behind the counter busies herself rearranging a cup of pens, obviously not wanting to eavesdrop but just as obviously not going to the other side of the room.
“I’m busy,” Elias says. “Call one of your boyfriends.”
“I was going to call Roger,” Sarah says. “But I figured I’d try you first.”
Heavy breathing from the other end. Roger is Elias’s probation officer.
“You’re a piece of work, sis.” His voice sounds tinny. “Where are you?”
Sarah reads him the address off one of the business cards by the incense.
“Ten minutes.” Elias hangs up.
Sarah slides the phone back across the counter. “He’s on his way. Thank you.”
“Would you like to sit down while you wait?” the woman asks. “Maybe have some tea?”
On the wall by the cash register is a silk screen with a pattern that looks vaguely familiar. An ornate rose over two interlocking circles with crosses protruding from the bottom, nearly identical to the tattoo on Cleo’s neck.
“That one.” Sarah points to the screen. “What does it mean?”
“The power of hope and love,” the woman says. “The crosses at the bottom, it’s a lesbian thing.”
“Hope and love.” Sarah nods. “Yes, I can see that.”
The flower bursts with color, petals seeming to reach out, yearning to touch the viewer, offering guidance and safe passage.
For some reason the springtime image makes her think of fall mornings at the house in Bowie County, frost on the grass, the smell of breakfast cooking. A time of peace. She’s a little girl. She doesn’t yet understand the emotional trauma adults are capable of inflicting on one another. Or on a child.
The woman, a confused expression on her face, stares at Sarah.
Hope and love, Sarah thinks. These are the important things in life. Hope, love, and family.
With a start, she realizes she won’t be able to see Dylan when her daughter comes back from surgery. She has to change clothes, get cleaned up from the mess she made in the alley.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” the woman asks.
A lump of emotion wells in Sarah’s throat. She needs to get a lawyer. Or leave Dallas for good.
If the police do their job, Sarah might not ever see Dylan again.
In her head, the voice of her grandfather.
Get out of the damn tattoo parlor!
Sarah looks around the store like she’s seeing it for the first time.
“Who are you talking to?” the woman says.
“What?”
“Just now. You were mumbling something about Dylan.”
Sarah’s skin gets cold. In the far corner of the store she sees a tiny TV camera.
The woman squints at Sarah’s waist. “Is that blood on your shirt?”
Sarah looks down. Several red droplets stain the white material just above her hip. Two homeless men, throats cut, blood gushing. How could she have avoided being tainted by what she’s done?
“It wasn’t my fault.” Sarah doesn’t know if she’s thinking those words or saying them.
“Maybe I should call an ambulance.” The woman picks up the phone.
Sarah’s grandfather:
GET OUT OF THERE!
The woman dials.
Sarah presses down on the receiver’s cradle. “No, that’s okay. I’ll wait on the street.”
The woman doesn’t speak. Her eyes are wide, taking in every detail, no doubt.
“Thanks for your help.” Sarah smiles and leaves the store.
Outside, the sky is cloudless, a merciless sun beating down on the cracked sidewalk. An ambulance, siren blaring, rushes by, headed toward the emergency room.
Sarah tries to get her head right, project an image of confidence. She imagines herself shopping in an expensive part of town, strolling with friends, not a care in the world. With that in mind, she walks to the corner and waits.
Three minutes later, right as the first police car turns down the alley, Elias stops and Sarah gets into his pickup.
Elias is not alone, and Sarah realizes that once again she has made the wrong choice.
- CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE -
I arrived at the Black Valley Generating Station midafternoon. Figured that would be where the action was, so to speak, and I was right.
Vehicles and people swarmed across the entire site.
A news van from Waco was parked on the side of the road just outside the main entrance. A woman with puffy blond hair stood with the smokestacks in the background, holding a microphone and looking into a camera operated by a bearded guy wearing khaki shorts.
I pulled up to the gate, and an armed man wearing a blue T-shirt marked
F
EDERAL
A
GENT
on the back waved me through.
Inside the perimeter were dozens of Sudamento repair trucks and almost that many black Suburbans, the latter sprouting antennas like weeds.
As I drove toward the main office, my phone dinged with a text message.
I slowed, picked up the cell.
A blocked number. The message:
Eliz is fine.
Breath caught in my throat. Piper was telling me about our daughter, Elizabeth.
There was no place to park in the lot by the administration building, so I stopped on the side of the road behind another black Suburban.
I typed a reply:
Where are you?
No answer.
I typed some more.
Please come home.
Nothing. A helicopter flew overhead. Vehicles rattled down the gravel road.
I waited a moment longer and sent one last text.
Tell E. her daddy loves her.
An enormous sense of loss settled on my shoulders. An empty spot inside me, like something had been cut away from deep within.
As much as possible, I tried not to think about the situation. I didn’t dwell on Piper’s foibles, the idiosyncrasies that made her who she was. Made her the woman I loved at one time.
You get involved with somebody like that—caring and beguiling and volatile all in the same breath—you have to understand that everything can change with a shift in the winds.
My cell dinged again, a short reply.
OK.
I let my breath out. Didn’t realize I’d been holding it. I swallowed the emotions in my throat and exited the SUV.
The administrative office was not very grand as headquarters go, maybe a little larger than an insurance office in a midsized city.
In addition to the Sudamento trucks and black Suburbans, there was a late-model Range Rover parked near the front.
Inside, chaos reigned. Federal agents and Sudamento employees hustled from office to office, talking on cell phones and walkie-talkies. Administrative assistants scurried about, carrying files and clipboards. The air was cool but smelled of sweat and coffee.
In the middle of the building was a large conference room dominated by a table with seating for thirty. Every chair was taken, and people stood with their backs to the walls, looking toward the front of the room.
At the head of the table stood a man in his forties who was using a laser pointer to indicate various items on a large monitor. The image displayed was a satellite view of the area around the plant, including the substation that had been attacked, maybe two or three square miles total.
The man wielding the pointer wore an expensive-looking suit with no tie and looked like the kind of guy who would drive a Range Rover, upper management.
Whitney Holbrook stood against the back wall.
I eased into an empty spot beside her while the man with the pointer droned on about market share, kilowatt-hours, and Sudamento’s fiduciary responsibility to its shareholders.
The people in the room were an even mix, about half feds and the remainder Sudamento employees. All of them were paying close attention to what the man was saying.
Whitney looked at me, a quizzical expression on her face. She whispered, “What’s wrong?”
I didn’t reply. The cell was still in my hand, and I realized I couldn’t stop glancing at the screen.
Gently, Whitney pulled it from my grasp. She looked at the text messages. “This is about your daughter?”
I nodded.
“Let’s get out of here.” She put a hand on my arm, directed me to the hallway.
Outside, the atmosphere was less tense, not quite as crowded.
An agent walked by. Whitney waved him over and said, “Is that hacker from Homeland still around?”
The agent nodded.
She handed the man my phone. “The last text message. I need the number and location of the sender.” She looked at me. “You okay with that?”
After a moment, I nodded. There was nothing on my phone that I wouldn’t mind others seeing. If a device was connected to a cell tower or Wi-Fi, it was pretty much a given that someone had access to the contents.
Whitney spoke to the agent. “Last time I checked, Hacker Boy was playing video games and eating microwave pizza. See if you can impress upon him the need to make this a priority.”
The agent nodded. He took the phone and strode down the hall to an exit door.
“Speaking of text messages,” I said, “you never answered mine.”
Whitney pulled a phone from her pocket. She stared at the screen but didn’t speak.
“Price didn’t tell you about the attack at McCarty Creek, did he?”
“We didn’t find out until later.” She shook her head. “Service wasn’t interrupted because of that incident.”
“He should have told you, though,” I said. “Seeing as how that’s your job, keeping the grid intact.”
“There’s lots of things that Price should have done.”
I didn’t know if she meant personally or professionally.
“What’s he hiding?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re a federal agent, Whitney. You’re supposed to be in the knowing business.”
“It’s not that easy,” she said. “You of all people should understand that.”
A Sudamento employee walked by, jabbering into a walkie-talkie.
“It’s the golden rule,” she said. “The corporation with the most gold makes the rules.”
“Why would Sudamento not want to find out who’s attacking their plants?”
“How long were you in the conference room just now?” she said. “Thirty seconds?”
I shrugged.
“And how many times did the guy in the fancy suit mention stock prices?”
I didn’t reply. Three or four at least.
“The market’s extremely volatile right now, especially the energy sector. Any big downswings in value aren’t good for the economy.”
“What’s that mean, you don’t get to do your job?”
“It means my job is complicated.”
A burst of noise from the far end of the hallway as the exit door opened and Price Anderson stepped inside. Standing beside him was the ex–Special Forces guy from the other day. Both were dressed like private military contractors in Baghdad, circa 2006. Khakis, blue button-down shirts, heavy boots, flak jackets. They each carried M-4 rifles.
I looked at Whitney. “What’s going on?”
“The part that makes everything more complicated,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“The head guy is here,” she said. “Sudamento’s CEO.”
- CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR -
Sarah slams shut the passenger door of Elias’s pickup as the second squad car turns into the alley.
They are on the corner by the tattoo parlor, down the street from the hospital where her daughter is recovering from a broken leg.
“What’s with the five-oh?” Elias says. “Have you been a bad girl?”
A pair of dead hobos in the alley. “Bad girl” is an understatement.
Sarah ignores the questions and stares at the figure in the middle of the bench seat, who’s huddled up against her brother.
A black man in his early twenties. He is thin, a wisp of a human being, delicate features. He’s wearing a pair of chinos and a collarless white shirt. The shirt is really a tunic, reaching to the man’s thighs, and resembles what you might see someone in Pakistan wearing. As if to emphasize the Middle Eastern effect, the man is also wearing a Muslim skullcap of the same color.
Despite his clothes, Sarah senses he is not from the Middle East or of the Muslim faith.
“Who is this, Elias?” Her tone is wary.
“Alfie.” The man holds out a hand, palm down. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
His voice is as slight as his body. Feminine. Breathless.
“No-no-no.” Elias shakes his head. “Your name is not Alfie anymore. It’s Amin.”
“Sorry.” Alfie/Amin giggles, still holding his hand out. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Elias pulls away from the curb. He turns onto Gaston Avenue. Their path will take them past the hospital and the bar.
Sarah doesn’t shake hands. She leans forward, stares at her brother. “What the hell is going on? You win this guy at the state fair or something?”
Amin extends his middle finger. “Well aren’t you just being a hateful little bitch.”
The stress of the past two days explodes in Sarah’s head, a starburst of yellow and black that makes her vision cloudy and her ears ring.
She grabs the man’s hand and twists, rolling the thumb outward. “Shut up,
Amin
, or I’ll punch you in the throat.”
The man in the skullcap screams. After a few seconds, Sarah lets go, but he continues his high-pitched bellowing, cradling his hand like it had been stuck in hot oil.
Elias jerks the wheel of the pickup and squeals to a stop in the parking lot of the bar.
He looks at the diminutive man and says, “If you don’t quit screaming, I’ll get your parole violated so fast the Aryan Brotherhood will be trading your ass for a six-pack of banana pudding by dinner.”
Alfie lowers his caterwauling to a whimper.
Sarah can see red and blue lights flashing behind the bar. “Keep driving. This is a bad place to stop.”
Elias stares at the lights. “What’d you do?”
“You think I’m going to talk about anything in front of your little pal?”
“It’s cool.” Elias pulls away from the bar. “Alfie won’t be talking to anybody.”
The expression on her brother’s face makes Sarah’s stomach queasy. Alfie doesn’t seem to notice.
Everyone is silent for a moment. Then:
“I want some ice cream,” Alfie says. His tone in petulant, an angry child.
Sarah realizes the younger man is not quite right in the head.
“That’s a great idea.” Elias speeds down the street. “Let’s find you a snack.”
Alfie looks at Sarah. “You almost broke my hand.”
A moment passes.
“Don’t talk to me, Alfie.” Sarah watches the city peel by. “It’s better for everybody that way.”
Elias attracts strays like a watermelon does flies on a hot summer day.
Needy, insecure people with the word “victim” written on their foreheads. This one is no different from the ten who came before him.
A couple of turns later, Elias pulls into a Braum’s ice-cream store and parks. He hops out, hands Alfie a ten-dollar bill. “Get anything you want.”
“Even a swirl?”
Elias nods. Alfie squeals with glee and scampers out of the pickup, skipping across the parking lot.
Elias slides back behind the steering wheel.
“Alfie’s not long for this world, is he?” Sarah says.
“Are any of us?”
“You know what I mean.”
“He’s serving a larger purpose,” Elias says. “Let’s leave it at that.”
“He’s just a child.”
“He drove over his mother with a riding lawn mower when he was sixteen,” Elias says. “She was getting ready to send him back to one of those camps where they pray away the gay.”
Sarah doesn’t reply.
“When the praying didn’t work, they used electroshock therapy.”
The people in Elias’s world all have horrible backstories.
Mommie Dearest
parents, abusive authority figures, and an endless string of improbably bad life choices. Why should Alfie be any different?
“I took Alfie under my wing the first night he was inside,” Elias says. “They woulda split him in two before he’d been there a full day.”
“You want a medal for being the humanitarian of the year?”
“How long do you think you’d last inside?”
Sarah doesn’t answer. She’d rather die than go to prison. Fortunately, her brushes with the law have always been smoothed over with either money or her grandfather’s influence.
Neither speaks for a few moments. They watch Alfie through the plate-glass windows of the store.
“You have to admit, he’s kinda cute,” Elias says. “You know how I am about brown sugar.”
Sarah shakes her head, shifts in her seat.
Inside the store, Alfie accepts a large ice-cream cone with one hand. With his other, he scratches his crotch. Sarah looks away. She stares out the back window, happening to glance into the bed of the pickup. There, she sees a half-dozen or so fifty-pound bags of fertilizer.
“Wonder whatever happened to Odell?” Elias cut his eyes toward his sister, an eyebrow arched.
Odell was a few months older than Sarah, half black and half Mexican. He lived in a tar-paper shack behind a juke joint near the Red River. He was a sweet boy, tall, arms and legs ropy with muscles.
Sarah and Odell got to be friends when she and her grandfather would visit the juke joint. One time, they kissed. By Sarah’s next visit, Odell was gone, never to be seen again in Bowie County. Sarah hopes he is still alive, but she has her doubts.
Elias chuckles softly to himself, obviously realizing he’s scored a hit on his sister.
A flash of rage engulfs Sarah. She clenches her fists, wishing she had a knife at that moment.
On the floor of the pickup, her heel hits something hard hidden underneath an old blanket. She reaches down and removes the cover.
Their grandfather’s old thirty-thirty and one of his submachine guns. The stock of the thirty-thirty is battered, bluing worn from the barrel. Underneath the two weapons is a plastic sack from RadioShack, full of items.
“Why do you have all that fertilizer in the back?” she asks. “And Papa’s guns?”
Elias doesn’t reply.
“Do you want to go back to prison?”
No answer.
“Or is this just some elaborate ruse to cause me more pain?”
“Everything’s always about you, isn’t it?” he says. “You’re the star of your own movie. Center stage, twenty-four/seven. My little sister.”
A moment passes. A weight presses down on Sarah’s shoulders. The lies, the hurt she’s caused. The face of the man in the locked car that summer day so long ago.
Elias says, “You never told me where his Python is.”
Sarah doesn’t respond.
“The guns were his trophies. You realize that, don’t you?”
“I don’t want to hear your bullshit.”
“Now they’re mine.”
Sarah shakes her head, not wanting to listen but not getting out of the pickup either.
“He was a good man.” Sarah crosses her arms. “I don’t want to listen to you talk bad about him.”
Elias laughs. “You really buy into all that chamber-of-commerce crap?”
“He provided for us,” Sarah says. “We don’t want for anything because of him.”
The smile slides from Elias’s face, his mood shifting like a leaf in a storm.
“We are rich because of him.” Sarah wipes a tear from her eye.
Elias’s nostrils flare with each breath, a sign he is angry. Talking about their grandfather usually brought that emotion to the surface. Elias’s narcissism is so severe he cannot abide when another person refuses to see the world through his particular filter.
Alfie/Amin emerges from the store, an enormous cone of ice cream in one hand.
Sarah pinches the bridge of her nose. “Back where you picked me up. There are two dead guys in the alley.”
Silence.
Elias says, “Witnesses?”
Sarah shakes her head.
“What about the place you called me from?”
“The tattoo parlor.” Sarah remembers the TV camera, the observant woman behind the counter. “That could be a problem.”
Alfie saunters toward the truck, licking the cone like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“What’s gonna happen to him?” Sarah says.
“You really want to know?”
She doesn’t respond.
“You should lawyer up on the front side,” Elias says. “Don’t wait until the last minute like before.”
“I hate talking to lawyers.” She sighs. “It’s like I’ve done something wrong.”
“Suit yourself.”
Alfie stops for a bite of his ice cream. He takes an extra-aggressive lick on his cone, and the scoops of ice cream fall, hitting the pavement with a splat.
“What an idiot.” Elias shakes his head.
Alfie starts to cry.