Brother (8 page)

But just as he began to drift, Reb's impatience jolted him awake.

“Let's go.” His words were gruff, testy.

Michael blinked his eyes open. He shot his brother a questioning glance, then turned his attention back to the little house below them with a curious look. He expected to see the woman sliding out the front door with her romance novel and a cold can of soda, but the yard was empty. The house looked abandoned, and with the garage closed, there was no telling whether she was home or someplace else.

“You saw her?” Michael asked.

That was the number one rule when hunting sedentary marks: Reb and Michael had to get a visual, establish the routine. It was their job to know when the mark came and went. How long they stayed out. How long they slept. Who they knew, and who would care if that person suddenly vanished off the face of the earth. Drifters were easier. That's why their prime targets were wayward girls hitching rides along empty highways. They didn't have to establish a damn thing when it came to transients. Even if those girls did have family, it didn't matter. Hitchhiking came with risks, and someone shoving them into the trunk of a car was one of them.

“I don't see her,” Michael murmured, reaching for the binoculars. “Where is she?”

“I don't care,” Reb said. “I'm tired of waitin'. We're leavin'.”

“We're givin' her up?” Michael's fingers slid along the strap of the binoculars, tugging it lightly so that Rebel would let him see, but Reb wasn't in the mood. He jerked the binoculars away from Michael's hand and sat up in plain view, throwing caution to the wind.

“Did I say we're givin' her up? No, I didn't.”

“But we're leavin'?”

It didn't make sense. Michael knew Reb was still sore about the whole thing with Momma from the night before. But abandoning their post would put them behind schedule, and being behind schedule put Misty Dawn at risk.

Rebel stood, dusted off the seat of his jeans, and began to stalk down the hill toward the car. Michael stared at him from where he lay on his belly, somehow convinced that Reb wasn't serious even though he was walking away. A mild form of panic set in when his brother put twenty paces between them. ­Michael skittered down the slope so he was out of view of the house, sat up, and stopped him with an almost pleading remark.

“But we
can't
.”

Reb twisted to look over his shoulder. “Stay out here, then,” he said. “I'll come back for you in a couple of days.”

The suggestion was enough to make Michael scramble to his feet, his pulse banging against the interior of his skull. “We've gotta clear this,” he said. “Either that or find someone else.”

Rebel didn't look back this time. He raised his voice while tromping away. “Don't you worry. It's clear.”

Michael rushed after him, sure that Reb really would leave him out there if he didn't follow. It scared him that what they were about to do would put them both in a bad situation.

“How can it be clear?” he asked, catching up. “We've only been out here one time before this, Reb. We don't know nothin' about her.”

Rebel narrowed his eyes. He bowed his head, kicking last winter's leaves with the tips of his scuffed-up boots. His sharp, angular features looked harsher than usual.

“
You've
only been out here once,” Reb said, then cut himself off with a snort. “Don't be such a pussy.”

“But we're gonna get in trouble.”

Rebel came to a stop.

“How're we gonna get in trouble?” he asked. “You gonna tell?” He gave Michael a stern shove. Michael stumbled backward, nearly toppling over when a pine branch rolled beneath his foot. “You rat me out, you rat us both out. Claudine will beat the livin' crap out of you first, and then I'll take my turn, because nobody likes a snitch.”

“I'm not gonna tell,” Michael insisted. “I just don't wanna—”

“Don't wanna what? Do what I tell ya?”

Rebel grabbed Michael by the arm, suddenly twisting it behind his back. A flash of pain bit into Michael's shoulder.

“Reb, don't!” he pleaded, but Rebel refused to let go.

“You've been a real pain in my ass these past few days, you know that?” He pushed Michael forward, forcing him to march like a prisoner of war. “
But Re-eb
,” he mock-whined. “
We're gonna get in trouble. When are we gonna get me some more maxi-pads?
How about we make a new rule for the retard? How about we say the retard ain't allowed to ask any more stupid questions? How's that grab you?”

“Please, Reb.” Michael stumbled forward. “You're gonna break my arm.”

Rebel gave him another shove, letting him go. “Brothers united . . . remember?”

Michael rubbed at his shoulder, frowning as the Olds came into view through the trees. “I remember,” Michael murmured. He was worrying for nothing. Rebel had the brains. Hell, Rebel was smart enough to clear the mark on two visits and Michael didn't have the slightest idea how he did it. That's how smart his brother was.

Sliding into the passenger seat, Michael pulled his seat belt into place and kept his eyes down. Reb sat motionless on the driver's side, the plastic eight ball that was attached to his keys hanging down from his hand. He mumbled something beneath his breath, too quiet for Michael to catch, and then shoved the keys into the ignition and left the hill behind.

 • • • 

Seeing the Dervish blaze bright and colorful in the summer sun made Michael sick. He felt like he'd swallowed a family of squirming eels, all of them collectively trying to gnaw their way out of his belly with tiny needle teeth. Those sweet, sherbet colors sent a quiver of nausea up his throat. Rebel was defying Wade's set rules—rules that had been made to keep the Morrows safe. They were supposed to clear their marks. They weren't supposed to visit the same place twice in a short amount of time. And they certainly weren't supposed to be ­getting friendly with the locals, whether those persons of interest had strawberry-­blond hair or not. The Morrow boys were to be ghosts, leaving behind nothing of themselves or those they took from the world.

Michael opened his mouth to protest, but he couldn't find the words. Every argument that tumbled through his head made him feel guilty, because he and Rebel were supposed to stand united. Brothers in arms. But despite all logic, despite every reason as to why going back to the Dervish was the worst idea in the history of bad ideas, Michael managed to convince himself that Rebel would never put the Morrows in danger. Reb knew what he was doing because Reb was the smart one. If Michael didn't trust in his brother and best friend, it would serve him well to pray for a little more faith.

He hoped that Rebel wouldn't read into his silence. But when he finally looked over to his brother, Reb's expression was severe. His mouth was pulled into a tight line and his eyebrows had stitched together. The ridge of his brow threw his weird gray-green eyes into shadow. It was the look of a killer—the kind of expression murderers wore just before wrapping their hands around a victim's throat. And yet, as soon as their eyes met, Rebel's face changed from harsh to oddly amicable. For half a second, Michael was caught off guard by that strange expression. It was almost plastic, as though his brother had pulled a mask over his face, hiding his true feelings behind a distant grin.

Rebel leaned back in the driver's seat and casually turned so that he was fully facing Michael rather than looking out the windshield. He stretched a hand toward the stereo and turned the music down. Cleared his throat. Gave Michael what looked to be an embarrassed smile.

“So, that girl in there,” he said, nodding toward the Dervish. “Her name is Lucy. And I know what you're gonna say before you even say it. You're gonna tell me how we ain't supposed to be doing this kind of thing because it's dangerous. Because Wade put all them stories about bein' followed and found out and whatever else inside your head.”

Michael shifted in his seat, caught the inside of his cheek between his molars, and frowned as his brother spoke.

“But I'm tellin' you that Wade is full of shit about that stuff. It ain't half as dangerous out here as he makes it out to be. The old man thinks every fuckin' place is 'Nam. He just wants to keep us under his thumb, you get me?”

“Why?” Michael asked.

Reb scoffed. “
Why?
Hell, maybe because he don't got no one else to control but us, huh? Maybe because he's married to an old battle-axe that tells him when to eat, shit, and sleep. No army man can really be comfortable with that, you know?”

Michael slouched in his seat, lifted his hand to his mouth, and chewed on a nail.

“You get what I'm tryin' to say? The old man is using fear to keep us in check. It's what them fancy folk call
manipulatin
', except that I'm tired of it, Mikey. I'm tired of someone else tellin' me how to live my life. I don't care how many people he killed out there in the swamps. That don't mean he's better than me. I'm twenty-three years old. I'm ready for a steady girl. But I can't have one if I follow Wade's rules, can I? Naw. And you can't have one neither. Not now or never.”

Michael nodded and looked down to his hands. He understood where his brother was going with this, although he was really trying to sell it hard.

“It's fine,” Michael finally said. “I ain't gonna tell.”

Rebel's face lit up, and suddenly his sharp, birdlike features melted into something good-looking. He looked like the handsome guys in the magazines or the ones that did cigarette commercials on TV. It was strange how fast Reb moved through emotions. Not more than a half an hour ago, he had been pissed off and brooding; now he was wearing the biggest smile ­Michael had seen in all his life.

“All right,” Reb said, looking satisfied. “That's great. You ain't gonna regret it, Mikey. You'll see.” He pushed open his door and began climbing out of the Olds when he stopped short, noting Michael's lack of response. “What's with you? Ain't you comin'?”

Michael shrugged. “You go on ahead,” he said. “I think I'll just stay in the car.”

If Reb wanted to pick up chicks, that was okay; Michael knew how to keep a secret. But he sure didn't know how to keep up when it came to playing the game. The idea of standing in that record store made him queasy. Snow White was in there, and with Rebel preoccupied with Lucy, she'd have nothing better to do than strike up a conversation. Michael didn't know how to talk to girls. That weird, uncomfortable yearning would come back. It would swallow him, and she'd see it in his face; she'd see what Michael really was.

“What do you mean, you'll stay in the car? That's crazy,” Reb was shooting for lighthearted, but Michael could hear the aggravation leeching into his tone.

“I don't feel so good,” Michael explained.

“Then you're
really
not stayin',” Reb assured him. “What are you, afraid of girls?”

The more Michael thought about it, the less it made sense. Even if Rebel and Lucy hit it off, what did he expect would happen? He couldn't take her back to the farmhouse, couldn't ever tell her what he did or who he was.

“I just don't feel like it,” Michael insisted, waiting for Reb to reprimand him for being a loser. When his brother didn't fire back an insult, Michael dared to look up from his hands. Reb's expression had changed. But rather than glaring at Michael with a look that could kill, he was now watching him the way someone would look at a wounded animal along the side of the road.
How sad,
it read.
H
ow totally pathetic.

“Fine, suit yourself.” Reb finally relented. “But I'm gonna be a while, so if you cook in here . . .” He shrugged, sliding out of the car. “Just think about what I said about Wade, huh? We work hard, Mike. We work hard for him and Claudine and we don't never get nothin' in the way of thanks. Don't we deserve a good time?” Then he slammed the door and trudged across the parking lot. Michael watched him disappear into the store.

 • • • 

Michael stepped inside the Dervish a few minutes later, but not because he wanted to. It was because he knew his brother well, and one girl may not have been enough. The idea of Rebel bending Snow White over the hood of the Delta compounded the nausea he already felt. If he didn't show an interest, Reb would take that to mean Snow White was fair game. ­Michael didn't know the first thing about what he was doing, but something about the idea of his older brother having Lucy
and
Snow was too much to bear.

The little bell jingled when he pushed open the door, that exotic scent hitting him square in the chest. He took a deep breath and stepped inside. Reb was standing at the front counter, leaning against it with one hip cocked. He shot a look over his shoulder at Michael, and when their eyes met, Michael could read Reb's expression with ease.
Don't waste this opportunity,
it said.
Don't let Wade boss you around no more.
Rebel grinned at Lucy. Her hair cascaded down her back in soft, easy waves. She tucked her ear against a raised shoulder and gave Reb a bashful smile as he reached out to draw his fingers down the delicate line of her jaw. Lucy's gaze darted from Michael to the back of the store, then returned to Reb again. She caught him by the hand and stepped out from behind the register, pulling him along. Michael followed them with his eyes—a pretty girl leading a grinning jackal to what Michael guessed was a storage room. They slid beyond the door and shut it behind them with a quiet click.

Michael blinked at the seemingly abandoned store. He twisted around to look at the posters on the walls, the ones closest to the front windows discolored by the sun. He recognized the music coming through the speakers as Van Halen; Reb played them in the Delta every now and again. David Lee Roth
ooh baby baby
'd his way into the open room, accompanied by the constant groan of an air conditioner battling the West Virginia heat.