Dead Wrong (4 page)

Would Carl’s mother believe her son capable of hitting his wife in the face? What about Carl’s friends?

She pulled her purse into her lap and dug for aspirin, swallowing two tablets with the rest of her drink. She reclined her seat and closed her eyes.

By the time the plane crossed the Florida state line, Sammy was nursing his third skimpy dose of Jack Daniel’s. During boarding, he’d glared at each new passenger who walked past, mentally cursing the foreigners as he labeled them frogs, ragheads, wet-backs, or whatever.

Only when the young girl with the ponytail and the hiking boots walked past did Sammy weaken for a moment. He had a soft spot for kids. Not in a weird way. He liked kids. He felt sorry for them, too. It was tough being at the mercy of bullies, teachers, and cops who treat kids like crap.

Sammy averted his eyes when the girl looked him up and down. No doubt checking out his fat belly and the way his ass overflowed onto the empty seat by the window. Some kids had no manners.

Now, with the plane in the air and Sammy not even close to feeling drunk, he leaned into the aisle and hollered, “Hey.”

The flight attendant peered around the corner of the galley, saw Sammy wave his glass in the air, and ducked inside. Before Sammy had a chance to yell any louder, the attendant reappeared with another J.D. and a cup of ice.

He handed over his credit card and took the tiny bottle from her hand. “Just one? It ain’t even a swallow.”

She tried to hand him the cup of ice, but he pushed it away. “We’re out,” she said.

“What? Out of booze? No way.”

“No, out of Jack Daniel’s.” She trotted back to her little hideout before he could think of something else to order.

Out of Jack Daniel’s.
Shit a goddamn brick.
He banged his head against the headrest and closed his eyes. He’d been drinking since third grade. He sure as hell didn’t intend to quit today.

“Hey,” he hollered again. He tilted his head to the side so he could see all the way to the cockpit door, his eyes open but squinted in what he considered his dangerous look—the one that said,
Don’t mess with me.
What could she do about a dirty look? Throw him to the floor and handcuff him? Spray mace in his face? What?

Instead, she whipped out of the galley opening and down the aisle with four bottles in her hand. All J.D. “Found some more. I’ll need your credit card again.” She walked away before Sammy had a chance to say, “Thanks.” Not that he would have bothered.

With all four bottles emptied into his plastic cup, it almost looked like a real drink. He lowered the seat tray on the window side but kept his fingers gripped around the cup after he set it down. He leaned back and considered how to keep Mr. O from finding out what he had done to Mrs. O. There had to be a way to deliver the goods, get his money, and be long gone before anyone found out.

Once he escaped Mr. O’s reach . . . well, that was the problem. He would never be out of Mr. O’s reach, if he didn’t get something on Mr. O, something big. When he got to L.A., before he caught a cab to the hotel, he’d find a private place where he could look inside that brown envelope. It might be the only way to save his ass.

Glades, Florida
Wednesday, January 22

Carl got home at seven o’clock in the evening. He left the car in the driveway, thinking he might go out again later. He fumbled with his key, his ability impaired by the half-dozen beers he’d knocked off since leaving the meeting with IAD.

A blast of hot air stifled him as he entered the house. He stumbled inside, slammed the door shut, turned on the hall light, and checked the thermostat. Ninety-five degrees. He flipped the switch to Cool and moved the dial to sixty-five, cursing Lynnette’s lack of consideration.

In the kitchen, a piece of paper on the table caught his attention. He picked up the note and read it three times.

Carl felt his face turn red. He dropped the note and began to rhythmically clench and unclench his hands as though working the feeling into numb fingers.

It was bad enough he had to go through all these interviews with IAD. Six weeks or more of counseling with a psychologist. Anger management classes. Now this? He balled up his fist and slammed it on the table.

“Hey, man. You got a problem?”

Carl jumped at the sound and looked toward the kitchen door. A street kid leaned against the doorjamb. A Puerto Rican. Maybe fourteen, fifteen years old. Red bandanna wrapped around his head. Small tat of a snake on his neck. Straggly beginnings of a moustache and goatee. Not someone Carl would expect to see in his own house, on his street. He faced the kid, his hands empty and in the open. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“You left that big door unlocked, man.”

“What do you want? You want to take stuff? Take it. I don’t give a shit.” He reached for his billfold.

“Nah. Don’ do that. I don’ want your stuff.”

Lynnette would have been home if they hadn’t fought. He wondered why she’d turned off the air conditioner, why she’d left the patio door unlocked. “Then how come you’re here?”

“Look at me. You know me?” the kid said.

“Should I?”

The kid raised his right arm and motioned into the darkened living room behind him. Two more punks stepped into the hallway and strolled into the kitchen with insolent purpose. Carl sucked his breath in alarm. The boys smirked. With all the force his arms possessed, Carl tried to upend the kitchen table and hurl it toward the doorway, but he didn’t move fast enough. They caught the front side of the table and shoved, pinning him against the counter.

There were knives in the kitchen. He had a loaded gun in the bedroom. But he was trapped. He had to wait, bide his time, try to look fearless.

Carl unbuttoned and rolled up his sleeves, then sighed. “Okay. What do you want?”

“You sayin’ you don’ remember me?” the first boy said.

Carl looked him over, shook his head. “No.”

“Think ’bout last night. Think ’bout when you and your buddy beat my li’l brother.”

Carl felt the weight of his heart on top of his stomach, pressing down. How had they found him? Followed him home? “You don’t have to do this,” he said, his voice shaky.

The first kid raised his arms as if he had no idea what Carl was talking about. “Do what?”

“Anything. To me. I’ve already been suspended from the force. My partner, too. They’re doing an investigation. I’ve got to take classes so I don’t lose my temper.”

“That sounds good,” the first kid said. “But, see, we done our investigatin’ before we even come here. That’s like takin’ the law into our own hands. Right? Kinda like you did when you kicked my brother in the face instead of taking him to juvie. He’s gonna be blind in one eye now. You know about that?”

Carl tried to look sympathetic. But then he made eye contact with the first kid and realized from the dead gaze that the kid didn’t care what Carl felt or said. Sweat beads pooled in the hollow at the base of his throat and trickled down his chest. He glanced toward the door to the garage, willing himself to shove the table hard, then run into the garage and out the side door to his car.

The first kid looked at the door, looked at Carl, and chuckled. “You ain’t got the guts, man.” He wandered into the hall and disappeared from Carl’s view.

The other boys pulled the table back so Carl was no longer wedged in place, but one stepped between him and the door to the garage. The other stood in the hall just outside the kitchen and watched him with a menacing stare.

Sweat trickled down Carl’s sides from his armpits. He tried to take a deep breath but couldn’t. He knew what they were thinking. He knew what they were going to do. Paralysis seized his brain. His body took over.

With a sudden lunge, he rushed around the table toward the boy in the hall and knocked him off his feet. Carl ran toward the bedroom where he kept the loaded gun in his bedside table. He didn’t slam the door, but jumped on the bed and scrambled toward the other side.

One of the boys grabbed his right ankle and pulled. Carl couldn’t reach the table. A hand grabbed his left ankle from the other side. Carl grabbed for the lamp cord, but failed. The punks jerked him backward so hard his knees popped. They tried to cross his legs, but Carl lunged for the headboard and fought to remain face down. He didn’t want to see them. Didn’t want to see what they were going to do.

One of the boys wrenched Carl’s hand from the headboard. With a heave, they rolled him onto his back.

The first boy sauntered from the doorway to the bed. He waved a paring knife back and forth. The boys released Carl’s ankles. He struggled to sit up. Something pricked at the left side of his throat. He closed his eyes. He smelled jalapeño and old sweat. He felt the wetness grow chill as it spread down his pant legs.

Carl wished he and his partner had left the Puerto Ricans alone. He wished he could stop crying and begging them not to kill him. And he wished he’d die quickly, that it wouldn’t hurt.

None of Carl’s wishes came true.

In the air
Wednesday, January 22

“Miss, please bring your seat back forward and stow your purse. Miss. Wake up, please.”

Lynnette heard the voice, felt the hand shaking her shoulder, but the voice and hand seemed far away, on the other side of a dense fog. She couldn’t fathom what they had to do with her. Her persistent attempts to ignore them, however, were sabotaged when her seatback abruptly snapped straight up. She opened her eyes and found the flight attendant trying to stuff Lynnette’s purse under the seat.

The airplane hit turbulence. The flight attendant lost her balance, toppling across the empty aisle seat and elbowing Lynnette hard in the ribs.

“Sorry,” she said as she struggled to her feet. “Sorry I had to wake you, but we’re having trouble. We need all the seats—”

“Trouble? What kind of trouble?”

“Something mechanical. I don’t know.” The flight attendant brushed off her skirt with her hand and smiled. “It’ll be fine.” But she didn’t look Lynnette in the eye, and Lynnette felt another surge of anxiety. She thought she smelled burning rubber. The flight attendant started down the aisle, wobbled again when another pocket of turbulence sent the plane into a series of bumps and bounces.

Lynnette clasped her hands in her lap.
God, please don’t let this plane crash. I swear I’ll do everything right this time if you please, please, please don’t let this plane go down. Amen.

“Miss.”

The hand pressed her shoulder again. Lynnette sat up straight and opened her eyes. Had she spoken her frantic prayer aloud?

“Miss, this child is traveling alone. She’s frightened. The adults sitting in her row don’t speak English.” The flight attendant waved her arm around the first-class cabin. “You’re the only woman up here. I’m putting her next to you. Would you talk to her? Put her at ease?”

The girl who stood in the aisle looked about ten, maybe eleven. Ordinary-looking kid. Straight brown hair pulled into a ponytail. Jeans, hiking boots, a pink and purple striped shirt. The girl’s eyes were wide, her face pale, her bottom lip trembling.

“Sure. Have a seat,” Lynnette said.

The girl accepted the flight attendant’s help with her seatbelt without acknowledging Lynnette’s presence. Once buckled in, however, and given a granola bar—apparently the flight attendant’s idea of comfort food—the girl turned to Lynnette and stared. Lynnette returned the girl’s gaze, making no attempt to hide her bruised face.

“How’d you get the black eyes?”

Taken aback, Lynnette didn’t answer.

“Probably ran into a door, right?”

“No. Car accident.”

“Oh, sure. My mom has those too. Doors and cars. Also fell down the stairs and broke her arm once. That ever happen to you?”

“What?”

“Maybe you’re accident-prone. That’s what Mom says she is. Seems like it came on sudden, though. About the time she got her new boyfriend.”

“Hey, this is more than I want to know. Can we talk about something else?”

The kid blew a little puff of air and sat back. “Whatever.”

The plane bucked and did an air skid to the left. The girl gripped her armrests and braced herself by jamming her feet against the seat in front of her.

Lynnette closed her eyes and clasped her hands and repeated her prayer. This time she didn’t bother with “please” or “amen.”

She felt a small hand on hers. Heard the girl say, “It’s okay.”

Lynnette opened her eyes, felt ashamed . . . and embarrassed. “I was just resting my eyes,” she muttered.

“Yeah.”

“Let’s cool it with the sarcasm, okay?”

The kid rolled her eyes. “You sound like my mother.”

“No kidding. Your mother must be a saint.”

“Nah. She’s a slut.”

“Hey, watch your mouth. That’s your mother you’re talking about.”

“That’s what my Aunt Maxie says.”

“Your Aunt Maxie has a way with words. Let’s not go there, okay?” Lynnette paused, then asked, “What’s your name?”

“Delilah.”

“Delilah? Nobody names their daughter Delilah.”

“Yeah, I know. I just said that for fun. What do think my name is?”

Lynnette looked the girl over from her ponytail to her boots, which were still firmly braced against the seat in front of her. “Emma. You look like an Emma.”

Delilah was quiet for a moment, then muttered, “Emma. Em. Like Auntie Em in
The Wizard of Oz.
” She paused a moment longer. Then she said, “That totally sucks. It’s an old woman’s name.”

“Auntie Em’s name was Emily. And your language sucks, kid.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

“Can I call you Dee?”

“No. I hate that. Call me kid, like you did before. That’s what my dad calls me.”

“Okay, kid. Why aren’t you in school?”

“What’s it to you?”

Before she could think of anything to say, the plane rocked and slid right. Lynnette grabbed the girl’s hand. “My name’s Lynnette.” Her voice sounded high-pitched and breathless.

“You totally look like a Lynnette,” the kid said. Her voice sounded calm and confident.