Chill Factor (39 page)

"I'll stand."

William gave him a measured look as he pulled the napkin from
his
shirt collar and carefully folded it before setting it on an end table.
"You sound out of sorts."

"I'm not going to take any more steroids."

Taken aback, William said, "Really? Are you noticing side
effects
since we began stacking?"

They had started Scott out with oral steroids. Dissatisfied
with the
results and impatient to see improved performance more quickly, Wes had
begun adding injections. While injections bypassed the metabolic
process and alleviated some side effects, there were still serious
concerns. Any usage could damage the taker's body as well as alter his
behavior. Scott had read about the particular dangers of combining or
"stacking" the injections with steroids taken orally.

"Increased sexual desire but decreased erectile function, eh,
Scott?"

William's sly expression was not only infuriating but
repugnant.
What did this weird, creepy runt know about erectile function?

Then William winked and laughed nastily. "Judging by your
popularity
with the ladies, I don't believe sexual dysfunction is the problem. Are
you worried about a few pimples?"

Scott refused to be goaded. "I'm not taking them anymore. Not
the
shots and not the pills. My dad is paying you a lot of money for them.
He's paying you even more to keep your mouth shut about it. But it
stops as of now."

Unruffled, William sat down on the upholstered armrest of the
chair.
"Have you discussed this decision with Wes?"

"I don't need to. I'm an adult."

"There's more to being an adult than achieving your eighteenth
birthday."

His tone was so condescending Scott wanted to punch him.

"Forgive me for stating the obvious, Scott, but Wes will be
opposed
to this decision of yours."

"If he forces the issue, I'll rat him out."

"To whom?"

"For starters, the school board. Newspapers. Believe me, I'll
make
myself heard."

"That would end his coaching career."

"That's the idea."

"You're doing this to ruin your father?"

"He ruined himself."

William pursed his lips as though he were thinking that over.
"I see
your point." Then he raised his shoulders in a shrug. "But I'm
confused. This sounds like a problem between you and Wes. Why are you
here?"

"One of your sugar tits is about to be cut off. You'll lose
money.
I'm here to tell you not to butt in."

"Oh, I get it now," he said with a laugh. "This is a threat."

"Whatever you want to call it."

"Scott," he said in a patronizing tone, "Wes doesn't need me
to
supply him with steroids. They're easily obtainable. If I don't provide
them, he'll get them from somewhere else. He can buy them online, for
chrissake."

"Not without risk of being found out. There would be records.
You've
made it easy for him. I'm here to tell you to stop."

"I suppose there's an 'or else.' "

"Or else I'll tell the state board that you dispense
pharmaceuticals
without prescriptions."

"You can prove this?"

"By clearing out my mother's medicine chest." That struck
home. For
the first time Scott saw a glint of apprehension in William's eyes. He
pressed the advantage. "If you and my dad give me a fight over this,
I'll expose you both. He'll have to stop coaching, and your
pharmaceutical license will be revoked."

"Oh, I doubt you would do anything that extreme." His voice
reminded
Scott uneasily of a snake slithering through tall grass. "The
repercussions would be too, too great."

"I don't give a damn about the repercussions."

"No? Are you sure?" William stood up and gave him a sad smile.
"What
about your mother?"

That was the one disturbing hitch to taking a stance against
his
dad. What would it mean to his mom if the real Wes Hamer was exposed,
with all of his artifice, deceit, and bullshit stripped away? She would
suffer public ridicule, and that would be painful for her.

But Scott reasoned that by saving himself from Wes, he would
be
releasing her, too. No doubt she knew about his dad's infidelities, and
looked the other way in order to keep the family intact, or simply
because she didn't care. This afternoon, when she had learned about the
steroids, she'd stood up to Wes. His mom had more backbone than people
gave her credit for. Especially his dad.

"My mom is none of your business."

William regarded him closely for a moment, then reached out
and
touched Scott's hand. Repelled, Scott snatched it out of his reach.
William merely smiled, but it wasn't a warm expression. The opposite in
fact.

"I caution you to reconsider, Scott. If you begin revealing
secrets,
you're likely to create a lot of unpleasantness for yourself. Exposing
secrets tends to have a snowball effect. Once one is exposed, others
inevitably follow, and each becomes larger and more destructive. Are
you sure you want to start that ball rolling in your direction?"

Scott tried to keep his alarm from showing. He must not have
been
successful, because William chuckled. Leaning forward, he whispered,
"You
do
have a dirty little secret, don't you,
Scott?"

"No."

"Of course you do. It involves Millicent."

CHAPTER  26

I don't know what you're talking about."

Scott turned to leave, but William grabbed his arm and whipped
him
around. Ordinarily the druggist wouldn't have stood a chance against
Scott's athleticism. Scott could have broken him over his knee like a
brittle stick. But he was so surprised by William's aggressive and
sudden move, he didn't resist.

"Then allow me to make myself perfectly clear to you, Scott.
I'm
talking about Millicent's affair with Wes, although the word
affair
lends their fuckfests a romantic connotation that's misleading."

Blood rushed to Scott's head. "You don't know—"

"But I do, Scott. I do. See, your dear dad has twin
compulsions. One
is to screw every woman he can. The other is to boast about it.
Surprising, isn't it, and rather reckless, that he hasn't realized the
two traits are incompatible. It's a fascinating psychological tendency
that really should be examined.

"But I digress. Where was I? Oh yes. Had there been any
romantic
love between him and Millicent, it would have been a Greek tragedy. A
messy menage to say the least. As it was, to hear Wes tell it, their
entanglement was purely physical. He once referred to her as being
constantly 'in heat.' " William grinned. "Imagine. And this was going
on while she was officially your sweetheart. Practically under your
nose."

Scott's heart was thudding. He was producing saliva at a
vicious
rate and couldn't swallow it fast enough. A tide of heat rushed through
his system, bathing him in sweat.

"So, Scott, I advise you not to come to my house threatening
me with
exposure ever again. You've got far more at stake here than I." Tilting
his head to one side, William said, "You know, you're very much like
Wes, whom you seem to dislike. I didn't realize until just now how
similar you are.

"Like him, you think your handsome face and powerful body
entitle
you to bully people. Wise up, son. There are various kinds of power,
and one of the most effective is knowing things about people they would
rather not become known.

"For instance, I don't think you or Wes would enjoy my telling
those
FBI agents, who coincidentally were at your house today, that he was
fucking your girlfriend at the same time you were.

"They may conclude that such an unsavory situation had created
ill
will among the parties involved. They may think—heaven
forbid—that such
a primal rivalry between a father and son could lead to all sorts of
mayhem, including, but not limited to, disposing of the problem, which
in this case happens to be Millicent."

"Oh, God," Scott groaned. The toe of his boot caught in the
rug as
he spun around, causing him to stumble on his way to the entry. He
wrestled with the doorknob in his haste to open it, then bolted through
the door without even bothering to close it. The frigid air was bracing
but not cold enough to stave off the nausea. He barely made it to the
hedge that separated the Ritts' house from their neighbor's before he
vomited.

The spasms were violent, forcing him onto all fours in the
snow, his
head hanging between his shoulders. Even after his stomach was empty,
he continued to heave painfully.

Eventually the spasms subsided. He cupped a handful of snow
into his
mouth, let it melt, spat it out. He rubbed another handful over his
feverish face. His sweat was making him chilled. He shuddered
uncontrollably and clenched his teeth to keep them from clicking
together.

"Scott?"

He raised his head and looked toward the sound of the voice.

Marilee Ritt was standing poised on the back porch, about to
pick
her way down the snow-covered steps.

"Go back," he shouted.

"You're sick."

His legs felt like jelly as he struggled to stand up. She was
halfway down the steps now. "Go back inside." His voice sounded hoarse
and panicky. Turning his back to her, he threshed his way through the
dense hedge and cut diagonally across the neighbor's front yard, wading
through snow, responding blindly to the instinct governing
him—escape.

"Hey."

Dutch, who'd been dozing in his chair, jerked awake, removed
his
feet from the corner of his desk, and automatically stood up. Assuming
the worst, he said, "What now?"

Wes waved him back into his seat. "Nothing. That I know of."
He
removed a bottle of whiskey from his coat pocket and set it on Dutch's
desk, then took off his damp outerwear and hung the garments on the
wall rack near the door. He blew on his cupped hands as he sat down
across the desk from Dutch.

"It's stopped snowing," he said. "But the windchill is still a
few
degrees below zero. They say it'll get even colder when the clouds
clear. Tonight will be one for the record books."

"Want some coffee?" Dutch asked.

"No, thanks. I've drunk so much today, I may not sleep till
June. I
brought my own refreshment." He nodded at the bottle of Jack Daniel's.
"Pass me your cup."

Dutch shoved his empty coffee cup across the desk. Wes
uncapped the
bottle, poured whiskey into it, pushed the cup back toward Dutch. He
drank straight from the bottle. After each had taken a few belts, he
gave Dutch a critical once-over. "You look like shit."

Dutch was aware of that. His raw, swollen face looked like a
pack of
wild dogs had been gnawing on it. "That ointment Ritt sent over by you
is worthless."

"Those cuts are gonna get infected if you don't have them seen
to.
Want me to drive you to the hospital?"

"No."

"Ritt's house?"

"Hell no."

"He said he had something stronger if you needed it."

Dutch shook his head.

"Have you had anything to eat?"

"Snacks here and there."

"Dora could put together—"

"I'm not really hungry."

Dutch assumed that Wes would get to the point of his visit
sooner or
later. In the meantime, he wished he would go away and leave him alone.
He resented being mothered. He didn't feel like making casual
conversation. He wanted to wallow in his misery alone, thank you. If
that sounded paranoid and self-persecuting, too bad. That was how he
felt.

And why shouldn't he? He couldn't make anything happen.
Nothing he
did turned out right. In fact, each action he took ended in disaster.
His aborted attempt to take Cal Hawkins's rig up the mountain road
would probably result in several lawsuits. Hawkins might press criminal
charges against him.

On top of that debacle, his authority had been repeatedly
challenged. Defying Begley's warning, he'd driven out to Whistler Falls
Lodge but had been stopped before he could get inside cabin number
eight to see for himself the kind of evidence against Tierney the feds
were guarding.

He was the primo, number one law enforcement officer in this
burg,
yet Begley had burst out of old Gus Elmer's cozy office and confronted
him, accusing him of jeopardizing an ongoing federal investigation and
talking down to him like he was nobody. Even his own men had grown
surly and mouthy every time he gave them an order.

"Dutch?"

He snapped out of the vexing reverie and focused on Wes. "What
are
you doing here?" he asked querulously. "Why aren't you at home cuddled
up with your wife?"

Wes snorted and took another drink from the bottle. "I'd
rather
cuddle up with that flagpole out there. It's a hell of a lot warmer and
cuddlier than my wife."

"What's the matter?"

With a dismissive gesture he said, "PMS, a headache, who
knows? Who
cares? Her panties are always in a wad over something."

"How's Scott? Has he said anything about the meeting this
afternoon
with Begley and Wise?"

"Why?"

Judging by Wes's knee-jerk reaction, the FBI interview was a
sore
spot. "No particular reason. Just wondering how Scott felt about it."
Dutch took a sip of his whiskey, eyeing Wes over the rim of the cup.
"Scott seemed a bit hesitant with some of his answers to their
questions. Was he lying?" He picked up a paper clip and reshaped it,
then held it up to Wes. "Or just bending the truth."

"Look at it from his standpoint," Wes said. "He was surrounded
by
five grown-ups, all authority figures, asking questions about him and
his girlfriend. At his age, would you have been straightforward with
them about your sex life?"

"I wouldn't be straightforward with them now."

Wes chuckled. "Well, there
you
go," He
stacked his hands
be-hind his head, propped his ankle on the opposite knee, and settled
back into the chair, looking like he didn't have a care in the world.