Blood Brothers (24 page)

It only took him minutes inside the house.
Thankfully, Mrs. Wylder was still out and Christal was in school.
With Stephanie gone, that left no one to explain to. To Michael,
that was a very good thing, he wasn’t in the explaining mood just
now.

Leaving his drive, he idled down to Ben’s
driveway, thankful there was no gate. At the center of the circle
drive, Michael killed the engine. He just couldn’t believe he
hadn’t thought of this before. The house was not exactly straight
across from his, but from the second story windows, much of the
Cole house and property were visible. Too much it now seemed.

Before exiting his car, Michael scanned the
front of the house, plus the front and side lawns. Nothing appeared
to be amiss, but that meant very little. There would be no blaring
signs or billboards announcing that everything wasn’t peaches and
cream within the house, if that was indeed the case.

Disembarking from the small car, Michael
eased the door shut and silently crept away. There was a
possibility, of course, that he’d been spotted pulling into the
drive. But if by some favor of fate, he’d not been, he saw no
reason to attract attention now.

He’d eased the gun into his waistband, snug
against the small of his back, as he’d stepped out and tried not to
think about its weight riding awkwardly as he moved across the
front of the house. A Kimber 1911 model, a .45, the gun was
intended as more of a showpiece than for any violent means. Chromed
with fine walnut hand grips, it was a fine weapon, or so the dealer
that had sold him the piece had insisted. The only times it had
been fired were at a gun range. Michael had never been big on guns.
That didn’t mean he was against them, only that he’d never had the
use for learning to handle one deftly. His line of work wasn’t
exactly stagecoach robbery, though he knew of more than a few
people that would highly disagree. Yet, he was confident enough in
his abilities that if push came to shove, he would be able to
handle the weapon well enough to protect himself.

If he could reach it in time, that was. Not
only was there a safety issue with placing a gun between your belt
and your body, there was also the consideration that such a place
was not conducive to quick drawing the piece should it be needed
quickly. However, after weighing the options, he chose this a much
more amiable approach than simply toting it in his hand as he
crossed the yard to the front door.

When he found himself at that front door, he
was no longer sure he’d steered himself in the best course of
action. The Reddick house was, in Michael’s mind, an atrocity of
modern architecture. Too many right angles, too many pitches in the
roof, too much ambition to be a monument to Ben Reddick’s success
as retired art dealer from Atlanta. Michael often wondered if he’d
sold art that looked like this house, and if he did, how he ever
kept himself off of the bread-line. That of course, was just his
opinion. The house definitely added an aspect of diversity to the
community. Additionally, who’s to say that Michael’s own home was
not an affront to good stylistic sense?

He realized he was contemplating home design
to avoid thinking about what he might find behind the door of this
house. Despite their apparent strange infatuation with living in a
home that seemed to be shit out the ass of Frank Lloyd Wright’s
evil twin, Ben and Elise Reddick were wonderful, outgoing people
and he was loath to consider something bad happening to either.
Beyond that, he simply didn’t want his suspicions to hold any
merit.

***

She was in the den when Trista heard the
car’s engine. Dressed leisurely in cotton shorts, tank top and a
sheer housecoat, she padded barefoot over to a window. Though she’d
never seen the Porsche, she recognized its driver well enough, even
from this distance. Michael Cole. Although he lived right across
the street, it would definitely be stretching things too far to
think he was stopping by to borrow a cup of sugar.

Placing the drape back in place, she reached
for her phone weighing down the pocket of her robe. Without looking
at the keypad, she dialed Jerry’s number. After three rings, the
call automatically went to voice mail. Not in the mood to deliver
her lover a sweet little message, she ended the call and tried
again. Once more, voice mail picked up the call.

As she passed the chartreuse sofa, she tossed
the phone. Out of the corner of her eye she saw it bounce once and
fall back in the cushions.

Indecision filled her, but she knew that a
decision had to be made. And made quickly.

A knock came at the door. Completely
expected, yet Trista still started at the sound as it echoed down
the foyer to where she was passing from the den into a larger
corridor.

Why couldn’t Jerry be here when Michael
decided to show up? Was nothing in life easy? The answer was
evident. No.

She tied the robe with the attached belt,
though since it was sheer it would hide very little. And besides,
what was the point in concealment at any rate. They’d been in bed
for many hours together. If there was any part of her body that he
had yet to see, it was purely by mistake. Still, who knew what his
reaction would be when he found her here? It surely wouldn’t be
good. Not after the video. She and Jerry were playing with fire,
and with games of this nature, losing was something that would
happen only once.

But what if she handled things herself? Now
that was a thought, wasn’t it? It would please Jerry to no end to
discover that Michael Cole, his nemesis throughout his entire life,
was neatly wrapped with a big red bow, waiting for him like an
early Christmas present. Oh, how excited he would be.

But she would have to be careful. Oh, yes,
very much so.

Unlike her or Jerry, Michael Cole had a lot
to lose. For some reason, despite the stories she’d been told, he
didn’t seem the type to give up easily. No, no matter what Jerry
had said, Michael Cole was no sheep being led to slaughter. She
doubted Jerry believed that himself. In fact, the only reason he
gave voice to such statements was for her benefit alone. Perhaps he
didn’t think she was committed enough to tackle this scheme without
his constant consolation that their prey was nothing more that a
cowed white collar coward with no courage, no bravery, no balls. If
that was indeed the case, she would simply have to dissuade him of
that assumption.

Taking care of Michael seemed the perfect way
to do so.

As the second round of knocking came, Trista
loosened the belt of her robe, pulled it off her shoulders so that
it hung about her biceps, which were tantalizingly toned, and she
went to answer the door.

Then

The smell of a grammar school hallway is
never pleasant. As bad as the classrooms were with their perpetual
stench of chalk and pencil erasers, the smell of old flowers drying
too long in the sun, smelly perfumes the teachers always seemed to
wear—at least the female ones—the hallways were always worse. Old
socks and sweaty jock straps, the smell of industrial floor wax the
janitor always seem to be applying. To the teachers, and maybe even
the principal, it might be a combination as heartwarming as apple
pie and honeysuckle, but not to Michael Cole.

There were too many bad memories for him. In
the hall, in the bathroom, in the class, out by the buses. Too
many, too awful. He’d recently come to understand the meaning of
the word nostalgia in English class and at times he wondered if he
would ever feel nostalgic about a place like this. He sincerely
doubted it.

It was early morning, just the second week of
school and already he’d worked out his route. The easiest, safest
way was for Michael to arrive early and get into class before
anyone else. The teachers didn’t lock their doors and after the
custodians pulled the chains off the outside doors, it was smooth
sailing up until about fifteen until seven when the teachers and
staff started rolling in. So far, Mrs. Strite, his homeroom
teacher, had no problem with him getting to his desk earlier than
everyone else. She wasn‘t a very friendly woman, but that was fine
by Michael because spoke very little and didn’t assign him any
tasks that took him outside the classroom. Michael suspected she
knew the reason he arrived before the other students, it was pretty
obvious. He appreciated her for not asking, not probing, and not
lecturing.

But when he stepped into the hallway from the
rear recess yard early this September morning something just felt
wrong.

And it didn’t take long for that wrongness to
present itself.

As usual, the hallway was so silent you could
hear a pin drop, except for the squeak of his rubber-soled tennis
shoes. He passed several classrooms, Mr. MacGruder’s and Mrs.
Kingsley’s. Then, along a run of lockers, he saw them step out of
the boys’ room. Michael immediately tensed his muscles, the ones
underneath the all the layers of fat. His throat went dry. His
heart quickened.

“Morning, fat boy. Funny seeing you here,
huh?” Jerry said. Michael had avoided them so far this school year,
only glimpsing them across the room, down the hall, or in the
cafeteria. His luck was bound to run out one day. Today seemed to
be that very day.

“What do you guys want?” There were three of
them: Jerry, Cliff, and Dale. They’d all sprouted up over the
summer. Thinned out and added about a foot to their height. Hoping
for the same miraculous development, Michael had measured his
height at least once a week all summer long. Unfortunately where
these guys had gained at least a full twelve inches by the looks of
them, he had merely managed a mere four. But he had slimmed down
some, considerably in his opinion. Though the Coles did own a tape
measure, they had no bathroom scale with which he could monitor his
weight as easily as his growth spurt, minimal as it was.

“What do you think we want?” That was Cliff.
Class clown, one of the mean-spirited breed, his voice was the
happy, bouncy, sing-songy kind and it didn’t matter if he was
telling a dirty joke or harassing Mike. Just that voice was enough
to piss you off. To think that he was getting his jollies from
dishing out abuse could ruin a whole morning. “We haven’t pounded
on you for a long time. Looked for you all summer.”

“And it is kinda hard to miss a tub of lard
like you.” That was Jerry, as usual he’d stepped up to take the
lead of his terrible trio.

“Just leave me…alone.”

“Humph, sounds like a reasonable request,”
Jerry said. “What do you fellas think?”

“Not hardly,” Dale said.

“Fat chance,” Cliff said, and snorted a laugh
as he realized the irony in his words.

There was only so much a guy could take.
Everyone had a limit. This summer, at least the last part of it,
Michael had made a friend in Jerry Garrett. Unfortunately, they did
not have the same classes, except for Social Studies and Mr.
Wilkins allowed exactly zero talking. And since school began his
father had been out of work for a month straight and Michael was
only able to avoid him every once in a while. The friendship that
he had silently hoped for, but in his heart of hearts knew it
wasn’t meant to be, like a fantasy in some doorstopper of a novel,
far flung and reality breaking, it did not grow. Since the night at
the overlook, Michael and Jerry had only met up a couple of times,
never for very long. The rebellion that had begun the night of the
two boys’ meeting had not been as success either. For his smart
remark, Michael was only able to walk the next day with the worst
pain he could ever remember, pulsing down his legs and ribs like
his skin was on fire, but it certainly reminded him that silence
is, indeed, a virtue.

But now, after dodging his attackers for the
better part of two weeks, two weeks of sneaking into school and
sneaking home again, only catch grief as soon as he walked through
the door was tearing him up. If a twelve-year-old could have a
nervous breakdown, Michael was quite sure he’d be the one to have
it.

But, as the three spread apart, they cut off
any direction of escape for him except for directly behind him.
Wait, scratch that. Cliff moved beside him, and then to his rear.
Michael kept an eye on him as he did so. He didn’t figure Cliff
would make a move until Jerry did, but you couldn’t be sure about
such things. Jerry could just as easily shout an order to attack,
and then it would be on like a chicken bone.

“Look,” Michael said. He didn’t even realize
he meant to speak until he began, “I’m getting tired of this. All
the time, trying to hide from you guys. For six years, six long
years, I’ve been the butt of all the jokes. People make fun of me,
you hit me, you hurt me, you chase me, and whatever else you can
think to do, just to make my life a living hell.”

“And that means exactly what to us, you fuck
head?” Jerry’s voice was pure acid. That was all it took to break
whatever spell had come over Michael all of a sudden. Because as
quickly as the courage had come, it fled.

Michael swallowed, unsure of how to
proceed.

“I think it means he’s tired of you assholes.
But if you got a blackboard, I’ll spell it out for you. If you can
read, that is.” Jerry’s nostrils flared. Dale looked over Mike’s
shoulder. Michael recognized the voice, but was so shocked to hear
it right now, in this empty hallway, that he wanted to jump for
joy.

“Who the hell are you?” Jerry asked.

“I could ask you the same thing,
shit-for-brains.”

“Look,” Jerry started, but there was
something in his voice, something that just didn’t belong. “I don’t
know who the fuck you are, but this is none of your business. If
you know what’s good for you, you’ll hurry along like a good little
bitch.”