Dorothy Garlock - [Tucker Family] (7 page)

Christina tried her best to ignore him. The thought pained her, but she had to wonder if she could continue to work for Dr. Barlow; if she had to see the Sutter brothers regularly, her time in Longstock would become unbearable.

The sudden honk of the car’s horn made her jump. “Didn’t you hear what I said?” Tyler asked.

“Yes, I most certainly did!” She turned and shouted at him, no longer able to contain her mounting anger, her hands balled into tight fists, “And I cannot believe that you would speak to me in such a way! I didn’t think it was possible for you to be any more disgusting than you were at dinner, but I gravely underestimated you, a mistake I will not make again!”

Instead of being shamed, Tyler widened his grin. “I suppose working yourself up into a lather is one way to stay warm. Keep it up and you’ll need to start unbuttoning your blouse.”

“Compared to you,” Christina yelled through eyes growing wet with fury, “Holden is the nicest man I have ever met!”

Much faster than she would have thought possible, Tyler yanked back on the car’s brake, threw open the door, and bounded across the headlight’s beams to stand before her on the sidewalk.

“You talked to him?” he implored. “You talked to Holden?”

“I…I took him his meal,” she answered, taken aback by the force of Tyler’s insistence; where only seconds earlier she had wanted to confront him, she now found herself taking a step back, uncertain.

“And he let you into his room?”

“He thought that I was your mother. If he’d known otherwise, he would have left me out in the hall; I’m sure of it.”

“What did he say to you?”

Christina stared into Tyler’s eyes and did not like what she saw. Gone was the jovial, good-natured prankster she had been introduced to. His gaze was maniacal. He had moved so close that he towered above her, his broad frame a little threatening. She feared that he was capable of an outburst that would put what happened at the dinner table to shame.

“He…he wasn’t happy that I was there…,” she answered vaguely. “He wanted me to leave…”

“What did he
say
to you? Tell me everything!” Before Christina could say a word, Tyler grabbed her by the arm. Startled, she tried to squirm away, but it only caused his grip to tighten.

“You’re…hurting me…,” she complained.

“Did he have an episode? Did he show you why he never leaves that damn room of his?” Tyler kept hammering her with questions, unwilling or unable to hear her protests.

Desperately, Christina fought to free herself. With every twitch and pull, Tyler’s grip continued to tighten; she was more scared now than when she hadn’t known who was following her in the car. Finally, she kicked him in the shin, the point of her shoe cracking into bone. The sudden pain cleared Tyler’s muddled thoughts. Releasing her, he stepped back, looking down at his own hands as if he hadn’t known what they were doing.

“Christina…I…I’m-m-m…,” he was surprised to find himself stuttering.

“Stay away from me!” she shouted as a tear streaked down her cheek. “Just stay far away from me!”

Running down the sidewalk toward the heart of town, Christina was surprised to find that, for the first time since she had met him, Tyler Sutter didn’t have a comeback.

L
UTHER RICKERT CURSED
the sun as he rolled over, clawing his way up from a restless sleep. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel the warmth of the sunlight streaming through the open window, falling across his back and legs. The inside of his mouth felt like mud and tasted worse, while his lips were sticky with dried spittle. Blindly, his hand reached out and touched a bottle, sending it skittering away. He knew that he wasn’t lying in his bed, but where he
was
, was anybody’s best guess; he didn’t have the strength or desire to open his eyes and find out for certain. Even as he remained as still as he could, his world spun dizzily.

And it ain’t no one’s damn fault but my own…

The previous night had started like most of his evenings: drinking in a bar. Luther had been at Colton’s, Longstock’s bottom-of-the-barrel tavern, making another go at drowning his sorrows. As usual, he’d failed. A bottle of beer, followed by a shot of whiskey and then another beer, before eventually ending with Lord-knows-what, had finally left him where he now lay. Try as he might, he hadn’t the slightest idea how he had gotten there.

Only snippets of the night swam up in his booze-addled memory, as if they were fish in a muddy river, barely visible. Luther remembered ordering a round of drinks, being challenged to a game of pool, making an ass of himself while he was winning, someone shouting at him about a woman he had been looking at for too long, and then it all got hazy…Faintly, he recalled harsh words, an angry shove, and then a punch. Gingerly, he raised a hand to his face, wincing as he touched a mess of bruising around his mouth and along his jawline. He could only hope that he had given as good as he’d
obviously
got.

A sudden uncomfortable tossing in his stomach told Luther that he wasn’t getting any more sleep. Somehow, he was going to have to get to his feet. With considerable effort, he opened his eyes, cursing at the brightness; everything before him swam, refusing to come into focus, making his head throb from the effort.

“Where in the hell am I?” he mumbled, but it was a question he already knew the answer to.

He
was
in hell.

Standing on the back porch of the home his father had built with his own hands, Luther puked over the railing. When he was certain his stomach had settled, he urinated into the bushes, absently running a hand through his dark, unruly hair; he’d had to go so bad that it was a miracle he hadn’t pissed his pants while he slept.

The day was too bright; even though he shaded his eyes, the relentless glare eventually forced him to look away. From where the sun stood in the sky, he guessed that it was sometime in the early afternoon.

“Goddamn it all,” he spat.

For the last three months, Luther had been working for Amos Worthington, laboring in the old man’s orchards to the west of town. Luther wasn’t trusted to do much, trimming branches, digging holes for new saplings, and other simple handyman work around the barns, but it had put money in his pocket and, just maybe, did something to rehabilitate the mess he had made of his family’s name. Luther hadn’t been the best worker, but he hadn’t been the worst, either.

But lately, things had been going to hell in a handbasket. He’d started having a few problems with his fellow workers, an argument here and there, one of which had nearly led to a fight. Then there’d been the matter of some missing tools, which, ironically, he
hadn’t
taken but for which he had been suspected, although never openly accused. Finally, he’d been late a couple of mornings on account of his drinking. The last time it had happened, the warning had been clear: do it again and don’t bother coming back.

And then he’d gone and gotten good and drunk again.

“You stupid son of a bitch…,” he cursed himself.

Luther knew he was weak; over the course of thirty-two years, he’d never met a vice he hadn’t taken at least a passing shine to. While he did his share of gambling, cursing, fighting, smoking, and sleeping with any loose woman foolish enough to share her bed with him, he was especially tempted by alcohol. He loved it all, from the cheapest swill to the finest whiskey. Where his love of drinking had come from he couldn’t say for certain. His parents had been teetotalers of the staunchest kind; the only exception they ever made was for communion wine.

Luther had once broken into a church to get drunk on that, too.

Every chance he got, Luther headed for the nearest bottle and settled down for a lengthy stay. Nearly every dime he managed to scrape up was soon drunk away. He’d long ago lost count of how many times Sheriff Keller had picked him up for public drunkenness outside the tavern; he’d slept off a hangover in the town’s lockup so often that his jailers jokingly referred to his cell as “the Rickert Suite.” After he’d been temporarily banned from the bar, he’d become so desperate that he tried making his own booze in a still out in the hills. That had worked fine for a while, until the day he’d blown it up, badly burning his forearms when he’d tried to keep the resulting fire from spreading to the woods. Still, his appetite kept on unabated.

He’d stolen money, ruined friendships, wrecked jobs, and broken bones. Drinking had even kept him from fighting against the damned Nazis; he’d spent most of the war in a stockade for offenses ranging from insubordination to striking an officer, all because he couldn’t be bothered to stay sober.

In the years before his parents had been killed in an automobile accident, they had been so embarrassed by their elder son that they wouldn’t even acknowledge him in passing on the street.

But through it all, the worst thing he had ever done was…

Luther shook his head; it was too damn early in his day to start feeling sorry for what had happened.

After all, it hadn’t been his fault.

Stumbling back inside, Luther caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked glass of the front door. With his coal black hair matted down in places and sticking straight up in others, a lighter stubble peppering his jawline, a nose broken so many times that it leaned first one way and then another, Luther was certainly a mess to behold.

Even his clothing was unkempt; the faded blue shirt he wore was torn in several places and filthy, especially around the collar. While the lingering smell of alcohol still clung to him, a matter made significantly worse by the vomit dribbled down his chest, the odor of dried urine rose from his boots.

The bruises on his face had already blossomed into a kaleidoscope of ugly colors: black, red, and purple. He was lean of build, wiry, with a strength not easily seen but quickly felt by anyone choosing to cross him. He looked mean, like a dog who growled at the slightest provocation. No wonder he had no friends, no woman, and no family.

Narrowing his dishwater grey eyes, now bloodshot with color, he was struck by how much he despised the face that looked back at him.

Luther started toward the kitchen, but a new wave of nausea washed over him, sickening his gut and making his knees quiver. He slumped heavily against the wall to keep from pitching over on his face.

“Stay upright,” he told himself. “You sure as shit don’t wanna die here…”

The home in which Christian and Celia Rickert had raised him now hardly resembled the place Luther had inherited. Gone were his mother’s crocheted doilies and painstakingly stitched pillows, his father’s bird-watching books, and the family’s heirloom King James Bible. In their place was a mess beggaring description: filthy clothes caked with grime and sweat were strewn over the furniture; dirty dishes and plates littered the floor, many of them growing moldy; and old newspapers, most sprinkled with mouse droppings, filled in every remaining crevice. Every photograph had been turned facedown, save one. The roof leaked water in the lightest of rains. A floorboard in the kitchen had rotted clean through. Outside, the place was in desperate need of a new coat of paint. The house, much like the life of its lone remaining occupant, was falling apart.

And I don’t give a good goddamn.

In the kitchen, Luther leaned over a faucet for water that he gulped down thirstily; he had to have something in his gut for when he vomited. He needed to eat but was disappointed, although hardly surprised, to find the inside of the icebox and cupboards empty. Fishing through his pockets, he produced a couple of coins, maybe enough for a sandwich at the diner. Now, having lost yet another job, he had to wonder where his next meal would come from.

It was hard for Luther alone in his kitchen, to believe that he’d once considered himself to be rich.

Standing in the pouring rain at his parents’ funeral, staring down into the hole that had been dug for their coffins, Luther had struggled to suppress a smile. At the reading of their will, he had been shocked to discover that, though they had extricated him from their lives while alive, his folks had left him the entirety of their estate. Just imagining all of the money made his mouth water. It had come with but one condition: that Luther care and provide for his younger brother, Donnie.

Even as Luther had chased the last grieving guest from his parents’ house, practically bursting with excitement to begin tearing the place apart in search of valuable items to sell, he had meant to keep that promise.

But fate had another idea.

Donnie Rickert was seven years younger than his brother; Luther always wondered if the boy was an accident; he’d just assumed that his parents were afraid that they’d have another child as rotten as he was. From the beginning, their worries seemed to be well-founded. In everything Luther did Donnie wanted to be involved, and no amount of persuasion could convince him otherwise; their mother often lamented that Donnie was young enough to idolize his brother but not wise enough to know better.

“You should watch it,” Luther warned his brother. “Pa’s gonna think you’ll end up just as bad as me.”

“Maybe I’ll be worse.” Luther’s kid brother winked.

When Luther robbed a gas station in Hampton in the middle of the night, Donnie had been his lookout. The time Luther had stolen a car from the train depot, Donnie had whooped it up beside him in the passenger’s seat. When he’d been badly burned when his still exploded, Donnie was the one who bandaged Luther up the best he could before taking him home. Luther had introduced his brother to his first drink, lit his first smoke, and taught him how to fight and curse. Whenever Luther was up to any mischief, Donnie was by his side.

And so it was on the night that Luther’s life had been changed forever.

For two months after his parents’ deaths, Luther had lived like a king. He had indulged in every want he could dream of, gambling until dawn one night, buying a woman the next, and drinking every step of the way. It was the greatest time of his life. But eventually he had begun to run out of money.

Everything of any value in the house had already been sold, his inheritance squandered down to the dregs, so in order to keep the good times coming Luther had decided to return to something he knew a great deal about: crime.

One night, well-lubricated with whiskey, Luther decided to commit a robbery in Longstock in order to steal money or, at the least, something he could sell. To his addled mind, he’d made his choice well. With no planning, not a shred of worry, and Donnie at his side, he somehow managed to drive them the short distance from his parents’ home.

It didn’t take long for things to start falling apart. Luther had insisted on bringing the bottle of whiskey along; he never stopped drinking from it, even as the dark alcohol spilled down the front of his shirt. He’d assumed he could jimmy open the lock to the back door, but, in such an inebriated state, he soon grew too frustrated to continue, eventually resorting to slamming his body into the door in an attempt to knock it off its hinges. When that didn’t work, he punched a hole through a window, slicing his hand. Once inside, Luther made no attempt to be quiet, rooting through drawers, knocking over chairs, tossing things on the floor, and shining his flashlight all around without a care in the world.

“If you keep doin’ that, we’re gonna get caught!” Donnie hissed at him.

“Quit whinin’ like a woman,” Luther answered, then took another slug of the whiskey.

Donnie’s concerns proved to be well-founded; they hadn’t been in the building three minutes before he noticed a police car slowly driving past. He immediately threw himself to the floor but was horrified to find Luther still standing in front of the window, glaring out into the street.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doin’?” Donnie shouted at his brother.

“They ain’t…they ain’t gonna get me…”

Somehow, Donnie managed to drag his brother toward the back door, Luther protesting every step of the way. Before they made it outside, the sounds of a car door slamming and the voices of the lawmen broke through the silence that blanketed Longstock. Stumbling, the brothers reached the car.

“Gimme the keys!” Donnie pleaded.

“Go…go to hell…,” Luther slurred, taking another swig; somehow through all that had happened he’d managed to hold on to his precious bottle.

“You ain’t in no shape to drive!”

“Slide over and shut your yap!”

By the time Luther managed to get the keys into the ignition, the cops rounded the corner, shouting as they drew their guns. Even in his drunken state, Luther knew he and Donnie needed to get away as quickly as they could. Tromping down on the gas pedal, Luther sped the car off like a bullet, past the sheriff’s deputies and roaring out of town. Faster and faster they went, gaining speed as Donnie nervously peered out the rear window, the sound of sirens wailing behind them.

“We’re…we’re gonna get away…,” Luther rejoiced.

But even as he crowed over escaping yet again, Luther was too drunk to remember that the road suddenly, sharply turned to the right. By the time he understood what was happening, it was far too late. With the tires screeching, the steering wheel useless in his hands, and Donnie screaming beside him, Luther drove them over an incline and down into the orchard beyond.