Blood Brothers (33 page)

“No way, hoss. I’ll drive.”

“Get in,” Jerry said forcefully, “or go the
fuck home.”

If anyone else had said something like that
to Michael Cole, they’d have found themselves in a brawl. But
Michael didn’t take offense this time. Jerry was an emotional guy
and he wasn’t about to turn his tail and run off on his best friend
or argue over who was going to drive.

Michael looked over his shoulder as if there
would be a guardian angel waiting to tell him whether or not he was
doing the right thing. No angel, guardian or otherwise, stood
within sight. He climbed in just as the Trans Am’s powerful motor
kicked to life. Thinking that Jerry would exercise caution,
considering his inebriated state, was just too much to ask for.
Tires squealed and he stomped the accelerator, leaving behind a
significant amount of rubber in the automobile’s wake.

Out on the highway, the silence inside the
car continued. Iggy Pop sang about isolation as the speedometer
tried to keep up with the car’s actual speed. There was little
worry about being stopped and cited for a speeding violation and a
subsequent arrest for drunken driving. Every municipal law officer
around recognized the midnight blue speedster as belonging to the
mayor’s son and short of an accident or something worse, there
would be no blue lights. Which, at the moment, Michael couldn’t
decide was a good thing or not.

“She’s a whore,” was all Jerry said as
highway unfolded beneath them, the headlights splicing through the
night like golden lances.

“Who?”

“Shelia. Who do you think I ‘m talking
about.”

Shelia Goodwin was Jerry’s current flavor of
the week. Both boys, being at the pinnacle of their popularity,
never had trouble when it came to attracting female companions.
However, just a few weeks prior, Jerry had confessed his love for
Shelia to Mike. At first, he thought it just a joke, or perhaps
lust gone wild, but the intensity with which the words were relayed
was hard to miss and Michael had to concede, if nothing else, Jerry
thought he was in love with the Winchester junior. As soon as
summer hit, Michael knew the visions of love would become a bit
blurry. “Just making sure. Why is she a whore?”

Jerry said nothing until he took a slug from
the bottle resting between his legs. That in itself made him
nervous. Jerry was usually more than competent behind the wheel of
this car. But distracted by drinking his um-teenth beer of the
night, and leaving only a fraction of his attention on the road,
provided just enough loss of control to kill them both. At this
speed it wouldn’t take much. “Well…I’ll tell you old buddy, old
pal.” When Jerry drank his voice took on a sing-song quality that
would have been humorous if it didn’t hold such dire meaning.
“There’s what, a few thousand women in this town between the ages
of eighteen and forty?”

“What?” Michael asked. He wasn’t a student of
the local population statistics, but when Jerry wasn’t any more
forthcoming, he played along. “Sure. I mean, I guess.”

Jerry nodded once. “That’s a lot of tail
running around. I’m sure that the majority of single ones and the
ones married, but not opposed to cheating—quite a few of them would
be attractive.”

“It stands to reason,” Michael agreed. Jerry
braked hard, slinging the tail end of the car way out before the
tires caught. Gunning the gas again, Jerry aimed the nose of the
Trans Am down a country lane. Judging by the direction they were
traveling, Michael was having a bad feeling. More to the point,
worse feelings, as he was already down in the dumps about seeing
his life flash before his eyes twice since leaving the parking lot
at the market.

“Out of all those split tails,” Jerry began,
his voice evening out, the musicality of it now gone, given way to
seriousness, “you’d think my old man wouldn’t have to resort to
ramming my girl.”

Michael was stunned.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Uh...”

“Well, wouldn’t you?” It took Michael a
second to realize that Jerry wasn’t asking a hypothetical
question.

“I…uh…I suppose so. What do you mean? Your
dad and Shelia? How do you know?”

“Ha,” Jerry laughed. “How do I know, you ask?
I walked in on ‘em. Making the two-backed beast. She was moaning
like he was screwing her with a bar of solid gold.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I doubt He had anything to do with it.”

“When? When did you…see?”

“Tonight. I was supposed to be over in
Corinth. At the sports supply. I even asked Shelia to go with me.
She said she had to study for final exams. Guess the test was on my
fucking father’s anatomy.”

Michael didn’t know what to say, so he
remained quiet.

“You should have seen his face when I walked
through the door. I don’t even think it registered that I was
really there. Caught up in the ecstasy of the moment, is my guess.
But when he did…Oh boy, howdy. Looked like he could’ve shit ice
cubes, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah.” Michael was still trying to picture
the scene. Or trying not to picture it, really. His father was no
champ, but he never considered his dad bedding one of his
girlfriends. Not that it was likely he’d be able to, at any rate.
Then again, his father was not the mayor and wasn’t wealthy, suave,
and unofficially the most eligible bachelor in the tri-state area.
Michael couldn’t even begin to understand what Jerry was feeling.
It had to be horrible; whatever mixture of emotion consumed
him.

“You moving out?” he asked as Jerry took a
left and started an ascent, erasing all doubt as to where they were
heading: the house on the hill. Jerry looked at him oddly, as if
didn’t understand his friend’s words. So, Michael continued,
“You’re moving out, right. We’re going to get your stuff.”

“Not hardly, compadre. Not hardly.” Jerry
tossed his beer into the back, but didn’t reach for a fresh bottle.
That, at least was a good sign. Or so Michael hoped. “No. I need
your help.”

“Help doing what, exactly?” he asked, not
really wanting to know the answer.

“Teaching them both a lesson. That cheating
whore and that fucking bastard. Teach them a lesson they’ll never
forget.”

Michael didn’t answer directly. Instead, he
looked down onto the floorboard at the remaining beer. “Can I get
one of these?” He felt he just might need it.

“Help yourself,” Jerry said. He braked again,
though not as hard as before. Michael looked up as he brought the
beer to his lips. They were in front of the Garrett estate’s main
gate. Jerry jumped out of the car and using a key from his pocket,
undid the lock. Slowly, Jerry pushed the gate open far enough to
allow the Trans Am entry. Then, back in the car in a flash, he was
standing on the gas again. The tires barked on the paved drive and
they headed for the house.

Michael started drinking quicker.

Now

Jerusalem Garrett was sick to his stomach, no
easy feat, to say the least.

After depositing Christal Cole in a safe
place—hadn’t she been a handful?—he’d hightailed it back here.
Something was worrying him, gnawing at him. When he tried to get
Trista on the phone several times and with no luck, he really
started sweating. It had been his idea to use the Reddick house. It
offered everything they needed: close proximity to Michael Cole,
lavish accommodations, and there was no need to divulge his or
Trista’s identity or even register with aliases. He hadn’t even
blinked when he’d walked the man and woman up here and
did…well…what had to be done. It was their own fault, really.
People were just too trusting these days.

Trista had performed marvelously. Dressed in
a nice little black business suit with the rented car and a
briefcase, she’d knocked on their door. When the woman answered,
she’d simply said she was with the state education department and
would like a few moments of their time. Mrs. Reddick was apparently
a civic-minded lady, so she’d allowed the woman into her home.

As Trista was led into the sitting room,
George Reddick joined them. After making sure there was no one in
the house besides the two, Jerry made his way in. Oh, yes, a bit
theatrical. They could have just burst into the house catching them
unawares. Maybe even in the dead of night when they were sleeping.
But where was the thrill in that? Much better to be invited, catch
your prey unsuspecting, and then do what you must.

As for their deaths, Trista walked the house,
checking out their new—albeit temporary—home, while Jerry dealt
with the two. He could have let them live, but he was not a man who
liked loose ends. After their deaths, he carried them one by one
into the attic and tied them together. They seemed so in love, so
why not give them that at least.

Until this very moment, Jerry was of the
opinion that choosing the Reddick place was a masterstroke. Now, of
course, the idea looked much different.

He knelt down to Trista’s body. He’d scoured
the house looking for her before coming up here. As soon as he’d
seen her splayed on the ground, he knew. She was cool, but not yet
cold. The blood on the floorboards was drying, but had not yet
congealed. He softly touched his fingers to her cheek.

“I’m sorry, love. I’m sorry.”

Closing his eyes, Jerry felt his sorrow ebb
away, replaced by a tide of raging red anger. The wave did not
merely crash against the surf of his mind, but burst thorough the
derricks and flooded in. Swelling higher and higher.

Jerry stood and turned to the pasteboard
boxes. He ripped through several before finding what he was looking
for. When he did, he flung the folded sheet out, judging its size.
A floral pattern on simple cloth, the fabric was musty but it would
have to do. On his knees, with sheet in hand, he bent low over
Trista’s face. She was so beautiful, even like this.

It was his fault she lay here. He hadn’t
taken her life, but he bore the responsibility just the same. He
knew that much. Leaning in, he touched his lips to hers.

“Vengeance is mine,” he whispered.

He took great care to cover her with the
sheet, a very inadequate show of respect. Nonetheless, that was all
he had time for.

Michael Cole had taken the last of Jerry
Garrett’s humanity this day. The very last shred of anything even
resembling humanity. It was time to return that favor. In
spades.

* * *

The office building was still surrounded by
police, reporters, and two dozen rubberneckers. Michael would have
liked to stop in and grab a change of clothes, but he now saw that
was an impossibility. It mattered little. The mayor would either
see him or he wouldn’t. Dressed to the nines or looking like a bum
straight from the crack house, Michael Cole was still Michael Cole
and he hadn’t amassed his fortune by not greasing a few wheels
along the way.

Michael conducted very little business in
Benedict as compared to the world outside the city limits. But,
when certain things needed to be changed, well, Michael could
always be found behind the scenes assisting in any way he could to
mold the city into his idea of what it should be. He’d placed more
than one politician in power. From the district attorney to the
mayor himself, Michael had not only supplied cash but, when
necessary, an expertise that wasn’t befitting of a
straight-shooting white collar businessman. Michael had learned,
however, that some things were definitely worth getting your hands
dirty.

He’d learned one other thing as well: once in
office, men often forgot the friends and favors that got them
there. Today, Michael intended on jogging a few memories. And why
not start at the very top?

He parked the Porsche in front of the town
hall. Unbuttoning his shirt, he removed it and stuffed it under his
seat, not wanting a passerby to notice the blood that covered much
more of it than he had first believed.

As he closed the door, he noticed his hand
shaking more than just a little. “Stop it. Take a breath and get
control,” he muttered, hoping the mantra would do the trick. Taking
precious moments, moments he didn’t really think he had, he stood
there, next to the Porsche, willing composure into his mind, into
his body.

After brief ticks of the clock, he felt he
was as together as he was likely to get. He stepped up on the
sidewalk, his leather shoes scuffed and dirty, and started in. If
anyone recognized or noticed him, they didn’t stop or speak to him.
Keeping his eyes ahead, he marched all the way to the large stone
steps. Once there, he took them two at a time until he reached the
heavy wooden doors that stayed, at least during good weather,
propped open.

The tile floor echoed his footsteps on the
marble walls as he strode down the hall. Still looking ahead, he
had gained a little confidence now that he was inside and Jerry
hadn’t appeared and a rolling assault of police cruisers hadn’t
arrived to cart him off for homicide.

That was another good thing. The city police
department was located in the basement of the building. If
something besides the fiasco at his office had been phoned into the
authorities, something say like the discovery of three dead people
in his subdivision, there’d be a hell of a lot more activity
around. As it was, he met no one in the hall as he made his
way.

He stopped at the door to the mayor’s outer
office. A tinted glass door proudly displayed the words: Dale
Wegmann, Mayor, in large block letters.

Dale, another ghost from the past. Despite
their childhood, Dale had become a key figure in Benedict life, and
Michael had simply allowed it. There’d been chances a plenty along
Dale’s rise to power to block the ascent. Having left the state
upon graduation, he’d earned a law degree out west, returned and
hung a shingle out in his hometown. His popularity rose and it was
soon evident that he had his eyes on public office. Money was a
motivator to almost everyone who sought a law degree, but along the
way another addiction was sometimes fostered: the addiction to
power.