River Runs Red (The Border Trilogy) (25 page)

He could never whisper a word of it to Byrd, but Wade couldn’t help wondering if it was the fight, getting his ass kicked, finally, by a seventeen-year-old that had done it.

A tentative smile played about Byrd’s lips and eyes. Wade had seen that look on Byrd before, usually as a prelude to some sort of outrageous suggestion that might get them both in trouble. That look had accompanied a thousand
I-dare-you’
s and
hey-why-don’t-we’
s and
I’ve-got-an-idea
s. “Okay,” Byrd said. “I’m in.”

“Me, too!” Molly added, jumping to her feet as if she’d been invited into the fun house at the carnival.

“Wait,” Wade said. He pointed at Molly. “No. Byrd, I’m not asking for volunteers. It’s my dad, and I’ve got to do something. I have to know for sure. But—”

“Wade,” Byrd said. The single word carried a flat finality, the way he spoke it, a
shut-up-and-don’t-argue
certainty. “We’re in this together, dude. We’re all in it, for that matter.” His gaze swept the room, encompassing his little sister. “I don’t want anybody gettin’ hurt. Anybody. So I’m in, and I’ll look out for Molly.”

Molly had clasped her hands together in front of her waist, and she stared at Byrd like he was the Second Coming. “Molly, you need to keep quiet about all this. And do exactly what I tell you. Without question, without hesitation. Can you do that?”

With all the gravity a twelve-year-old could possess, she lowered her eyelids halfway and nodded her head. “Yes, Byrd.”

“Good. Okay, Wade, what’s the plan?”

* * *

For the next few nights, Wade’s dad stayed in. He watched TV, he drank a couple of beers. From time to time Wade even caught him engaging in civil, good-humored conversation with Mom.

Summer was drawing toward a close, the days speeding past as the beginning of school neared. Wade hung out with Byrd whenever Byrd’s job at the Mercantile didn’t keep him tied up. He and Angela were still dating. In the timeless tradition of teenage sweethearts, the only caution they exercised was their studious avoidance of the word “love.” Possibly as a result, Wade didn’t know if he was in love with her, but being away from her made his chest ache and being near her made other parts sore. He saw Angela most evenings, always breaking away (an exercise in willpower he was surprised to win) in time to be home before nine. On the nights his father had left the house, presumably to go boy-hunting, he had always taken off around ten.

Five nights after the meeting in the cave, Dad went out again. Just before ten, he tugged on a denim jacket and a ball cap with the Dallas Cowboys star logo because a summer thunderstorm had opened up the skies an hour before and hadn’t let up, growled a cursory “See you later,” and stepped out the door.

As they had discussed, Wade rushed to the phone and dialed Byrd’s number. Wade let the phone ring once, hung up, dialed the number again, and once again hung up after the first ring. Byrd would be able to hear it from wherever he was in the house, and he’d know to get outside and grab his bike. Molly, Wade hoped, was already sound asleep.

The timing worked just as they’d hoped. After making his two aborted calls, Wade ran to his bike and started pedaling for all he was worth, cutting across a field instead of taking McHenry Road. Mud sucked at his tires, trying to drag him down, but he pushed through. The route led to River Road, heading toward town. He could see the diffuse glow of taillights through the rain, probably Dad in the pickup. By the time his dad reached the McCall place, Byrd should have been outside on his bike, ready to ride.

Soaked and winded, his lungs screaming in protest and his heart jackhammering in his chest, Wade rode into Palo Duro. As he came into the glow of the streetlights, which only extended for a quarter mile or so from the crossroads at River and Palo Duro, he heard a low whistle and squeezed the brake handles, having finally traded up, a year before, from the ancient Stingray to a new mountain bike.

He came to a shuddering stop, rear wheel kicking up a small fantail of rainwater. Byrd came out of the shadows between the BBQ Shack and the Mercantile, straddling his own bike. His cheeks were red with effort and he had to suck in a deep breath before he spoke. “He went into Betty’s,” he said, pointing at the Night Owl Saloon down the street. “Hasn’t come out.”

“Anyone see you leave the house?”

“Don’t think so. I can’t stay out too late, though.”

“Go ahead on home, man. I can stay.”

“You sure?”

“It’s covered.” Wade’s mom had watched him leave but she hadn’t asked any questions. He figured her world had been turned so upside down that she wouldn’t know where to start. He might have some awkward explaining to do when he got back. Then again, maybe not.

He’d try not to worry about that until it happened. Until then, he had to keep an eye on Dad, make sure he didn’t go all
Texas Chainsaw Massacre
on some other poor kid.

Byrd took off, and Wade decided his spot was a good one. From the shadows he could clearly see the pickup truck and the front door of Betty’s Night Owl. Neon liquor signs glowed in the building’s curtained window. He put down the bike’s kickstand and sat on an unpainted wooden step leading to the BBQ Shack’s big screened patio. The driving rain against the building’s tin roof made a noise like a never-ending train clattering by. The space between the buildings smelled like piss, and the broken glass strewn about made him worry about his bike’s tires. But there was an overhang above the door that kept most of the rain off him, and he leaned back against the door and tried not to think at all.

After a couple hours, his dad staggered out, climbed into the truck, slammed the door, and drove toward home. Wade followed. When he pulled into the driveway, the truck was sitting there, the engine ticking. A light blazed upstairs in his parents’ bedroom, but the downstairs was dark.

Wade stole inside and crept up the stairs and into his room without being observed. Once the door was closed, the enormity of what he had tried to do, of what his father might have done, surrounded him all at once, like a giant’s fist closing in on him, crushing his ribs, compressing his lungs. He broke into an icy sweat. He peeled his wet clothes away and sat on his bed in his underwear, trembling.

Can I do this?
he asked himself.
Can I really
do
this?

On the other hand, how can I not?

TWENTY-EIGHT

It went on like that for a week. Dad leaving around ten on two more nights, going down to Betty’s for an hour or so, then returning home. Wade followed, with Byrd—and once, Molly—joining the chase as Dad drove past their house.

Saturday came. School would start a week from Monday. Wade felt like his last weeks of vacation had passed him by, his worries overwhelming the sense of freedom he should have exulted in.

Angela’s parents had gone to San Antonio for the weekend, leaving Angela in charge of her little brother, fourteen-year-old Alan. Wade spent the day with her, swimming in the river and fooling around, while Alan hung out with buddies from his class. That evening, Angela let three of the boys stay for dinner, which consisted of frozen pizzas from the Mercantile, Cokes, and celery sticks that mostly went uneaten. Afterward, in the early twilight, she and Wade went for a long walk in the undeveloped desert near their place. The Mills family lived way out of town, in the direction of Smuggler’s Canyon, and their farm contained the last cultivated fields for miles. A nearly full moon rose early and hung low in the sky, yellow as autumn grass.

“I’m sorry we fought yesterday,” Angela said, twining her fingers in his. Holding her hand never stopped being a thrill, as if she were plugged into an electrical outlet and conducted the current directly to his heart. She wore perfume that reminded him of fresh peaches.

He couldn’t even remember how they had started fighting. The simple pleasures of this day had already blotted it from his memory. It had been over the phone, and they’d each hung up on the other once. He had been tense for days because of the old man, and he had snapped at her when she’d said something perfectly innocent. “Me, too,” he said. “It sucks when we’re mad at each other.”

“It does,” she agreed. “But when we’re not.” She turned to face him, pressing her palms against his upper chest. “Then
I
suck.”

“You do?”

“I could.”

“What about your brother?”

“He and his friends are playing games,” she said. “They’ll never even miss us.”

“If you’re sure…”

She didn’t speak, just lowered herself to her knees, running her hands down his body until they reached the waistband of his jeans. She had worn a tight cotton V-neck shirt and denim shorts, and all day he had stolen glances at her body, her long legs, the way her shirt exposed the upper mounds of her breasts. He couldn’t say he wasn’t ready. She had gone down on him a few times, tentatively and unsure of her abilities, and though he still wasn’t sure what to do with his hands while she did it (Rub the top of her head? Smack the bed? Clutch the sheets?), he was happy to be her guinea pig. He didn’t know if this was love, but it would do until the real thing came along.

This time, kneeling out in the desert, him standing with his hands on his hips, elbows out for balance, she had her technique down and finished him quickly. When it was done, he had to sit down, his knees having turned to rubber about halfway through. She stroked his dwindling erection a few times, then tucked it back into his pants.

“You liked that.”

“I did. A lot. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” She smiled to show that she really was pleased. “I like it. too. And I like when you do it to me.”

“You want me to?” He’d be happy to reciprocate, as soon as his legs stopped quaking.

“Not right now. Maybe later. How late can you stay?”

He hadn’t told her anything about the nighttime rides, or his suspicions about his father. If Dad was the killer, then the fewer people who found out, the better—at least until he had enough proof to go to the sheriff. “Oh, you know. Nine or so, I guess.”

“Sure you can’t stay later, Wade? Maybe tell your folks you’re spending the night at Byrd’s? I told Alan one of his friends could stay over.”

He had rarely heard a more tempting offer. Maybe he could skip watching the old man, this one night. It might prove to be a night he would never forget.

But if it turned out to be the night that the next kid got killed, he not only wouldn’t forget, he’d never forgive himself.

He hated his father more than ever for putting him in such a stupid position. The offer of a lifetime, from an amazingly sexy girl, and he had to turn her down. Maybe he was secretly adopted, maybe his mom had been sleeping around even in those days and he was really the son of some other guy. Anyone else would be an improvement, anyone who wasn’t a killer and an abuser.

“I can’t,” he said at last. “I have to be home.”

“But, Wade! It’s our one chance. You always say you want to go to sleep with your arms around me, and wake up with me next to you. We could do it tonight!”

“I know, Angela.” Wade was arguing against everything he wanted in life, at that moment, and it made him feel like an idiot. “Believe me, I know.”

“Then just stay.”

“I can’t.”

“Wade—”

“Angela, I just can’t!” He was getting mad, snapping at her again, even though she wasn’t doing anything wrong. “Don’t ask me why, okay? It’s just the way things are.”

“I…I can’t accept that, Wade. If you loved me, you’d—”

“I’d still do what I’m doing, Angela. I have to go home tonight. There’s just no way around it.”

She looked away from him, and he saw the beginnings of tears welling in her eyes. This was not the kind of evening he had imagined or wanted. Okay, the first part had been, but not this.

“Wade, I need to be with someone who’s really in it with me. Not just sometimes, not just when it’s handy, but all the time.”

“Angela, I am—”

Her turn to interrupt. “No you’re not! Even when you’re with me, you’re thinking about something else. I can see it. You drift away, into some other world. Sometimes I have to say your name three times before you know I’m talking to you. If I didn’t just suck you, you probably wouldn’t even know it now!”

“That’s not fair, Angela,” he started to say. But he stopped, because it
was
fair. He’d been only half-present, if that, since this whole thing with his dad had started.

Maybe if I tell her—

He couldn’t tell her, though. Couldn’t risk it. If he told anyone, and it somehow got back to his dad, he would never get the proof he needed.

“Wade?”

God, it happened again. How many times did she have to say my name that time?
“Yes, baby?”

“Wade, I like you a lot. But I can’t do this with you. I just can’t, okay? We’re done, Wade.”