Crazy Blood (26 page)

Wylie saw Cynthia at the edge of his vision, canting her head keenly toward Robert. Robert's eyelids did not move. “He's asleep,” said Cynthia. “Clearly.”

Wylie found Robert's hand under the covers and took it. His experience in combat had taught him almost nothing about this kind of neurological damage. In combat, Wylie could perform the four lifesaving steps: restore breathing, stop bleeding, protect wound, treat for shock. It was bloody, adrenaline-crazed work, but only once had a man died right there on him. Sergeant Madigan. The others were alive when they got CASEVAC'ed out. Some made it and some did not. Early in his deployment, Wylie had been amazed at how badly a man could be mangled and still survive. The medical corpsmen were good, the CH-46 evacuations were swift, the doctors at the field hospitals were excellent, and the drugs were strong. Thousands of lives were saved that in other wars could not have been. A couple of them were partly due to him.

But he felt more helpless with Robert now than he had ever felt on the battlefield. Wylie had no tools for this—no tourniquet or QuickClot or even a roll of gauze, no gun to shoot back with—and no hope, either. He watched Robert's eyelids intently for a long moment, hoping he was wrong about Robert. He'd never wanted so badly to be wrong. He almost envied Cynthia's delusions. Almost. Which was worse—no hope or false hope?

“Well,” he said. “Maybe he's asleep. Like you said.”

“April Holly will not be true to you. True champions are never true.”

Wylie turned to her. The light coming through the cracks in the blinds lined her face, and he saw Robert and Sky in her. “Why did you bring me here?” he asked.

“Life is made of three great labors. The third is learning to change direction. By that, I mean I want to apologize for what I did to your father. My husband. But now that we're standing here so close together, I can't apologize. I cannot form the words.”

Wylie looked into the pale blue eyes trapped between the slats of light. “Maybe someday.”

“I've certainly looked my deed straight in the eye. Even then I saw what I had coming. But I cannot change direction with you and your mother because first I would have to forgive you.”

“Forgive us for what?”

“For taking Richard from me, of course.”

“Have you forgiven yourself for killing him?”

“Never. The consequence is mine. My burden through eternity.”

“And mine is to not have my father.”

“Things circle outward from the act. As from a rock thrown into a still pond.”

“Not much stillness here, Mrs. Carson. On this mountain. For us.”

“Toil and trouble.”

Wylie looked at Robert again. “Well, then.”

“Well then, indeed.”

“You still scare the shit out of me.”

“You cannot imagine my dreams.”

Before he could think of anything else to say, Wylie was outside in the lightly falling snow, unaware of having passed back through Cynthia's town house and out the door. He started up his truck. His heart was racing and sweat ran down his flanks and he couldn't get the picture of Robert's beautiful, unconscious face from his mind. He closed his eyes against it and let the defroster roar.

He heard the rapping on the window, saw Cynthia's fist coming at the glass again, and her eyes open wide. “Roll down the window!”

Wylie hit the down button, felt the cool gust of air, saw a strand of Cynthia's white hair blow across her face. “You forgot this!” She pushed a copy of
The Woolly
through the window. He set it on the seat beside him.

“I can't apologize to you for what I did,” she said. “But I can commit a small act of kindness on behalf of someone you care about. And give you a piece of practical advice.”

He waited, locking eyes with her again. “Kindness and advice? From you? Commit away, Mrs. Carson.”

“Make them show you number twelve Madrone. Up by Canyon Lodge.”

“Who? Why?”

“Your sisters. Twelve Madrone. Make them take you there. And here is my advice—beware of Sky's threat. He has the blood to back it up.”

Cynthia turned abruptly and headed back inside.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Wylie found Beatrice and Belle at the dining room table, bent over their studies. Kathleen and Steen were still at Let It Bean, tangling with a plumbing issue in the kitchen drain, which had been aggravated by the freeze the night before. Outside, it was snowing lightly and the house was cold. Wylie brought in wood and kindling and got the stove going.

“What's with twelve Madrone?” he asked as the flame crept up the logs.

Belle looked at him briefly, but Beatrice did not. “Isn't that a street?” asked Beatrice, more to her book than to her brother.

“A street up by Canyon Lodge.”

“So what about it?” asked Belle.

“I asked you what you know about it,” he snapped.

A beat of silence, then Beatrice said, “I'm kind of trying to keep my GPA up in the stratosphere, Wyles. And you're talking about a street I've barely heard of.”

He watched them attempt casual eye contact and saw the worry on Belle's face, played off as boredom.

“I drove by twelve Madrone today,” he said. “For sale. Looks empty. Maybe I'll just call the Realtor and get a tour.”

“And buy it with what?” Belle asked. “We lost money again last month, if you haven't heard. Lots. Third month straight.”

“Fall is tough in Mammoth,” said Wylie.

“Unless you start dating April Holly,” said Beatrice.

“We'll be bankrupt by March,” said Belle. “Mom does the numbers. We don't make them up.”

Wylie took away Belle's
American Experience
textbook and set it on the breakfast counter. Then Beatrice's
The Tortilla Curtain.
“I can smell your bullshit from across the room, sisters. Now talk to me.”

“We know nothing about that house,” said Belle.

“Totally nothing.”

“Fine.”

“Who told you what?” asked Beatrice.

“Anonymous tip. I've got a Realtor friend who can let me in. I can check it out my own. You know I'm not bluffing.”

This time, their anxious faces met Wylie's without any pretense at casualness. Belle turned to her sister. “No.”

“It's time,” said Beatrice.

“Be strong,” said Belle.

“We'll show you,” said Beatrice.

“We're doomed,” said Belle.

*   *   *

They stood in tall pines beside the garage of 12 Madrone Street. The house was part of a small development that shared a common patch of forest, with a tennis court, pool, and barbecue area scattered within the trees. Several had
FOR SALE
signs out front. Light snow fell from a gunmetal gray sky. Beatrice took the key from the fake rock hider, set the hider back among the decorative river rocks arranged along the driveway, then slid the key into the side door of the garage.

“You've done this before,” said Wylie.

“Kristy and her family moved out last year,” said Belle. “She told me about the key. In case we needed to get in.”

Wylie's imagination went a little south. “Why would you need to get in?”

“We didn't know why until later,” said Beatrice.

She pulled open the door and Wylie stepped inside, followed by his sisters. The windows were small and the light was dim. It was a big garage and empty, the floors stained with motor oil and tranny fluid and coolant. A gas can and snow shovels sat in one corner. Large plywood cabinets had been built along one wall. Wylie saw that they were secured with the cheap combination locks used by high schoolers, the pink ones favored by some girls.

Beatrice went to the cabinet nearest the door of the house, turned the dial of the lock, and pulled it off the latch. She swung out both doors and hung her head. Wylie saw the neatly arranged skis, ten pairs—expensive skis in good condition. Beatrice opened the adjacent cabinet. Ten more pairs.

“There're six cabinets with ten pairs each,” said Belle. “Sixty pairs.”

“Wow. From the lodges,” said Wylie. His heart beat heavily, seeing how his sisters had fallen, knowing that so much had changed. He'd foreseen drugs and alcohol and maybe early sex for them, anger and truancy and rotten grades. Growing pains. Not grand theft.

“Do you carry snowboards and bikes, too?”

“Right this way,” said Beatrice.

She unlocked the door to the house and stepped in and found a light. When she turned to him, Wylie saw the resigned expression on her face.

“Go ahead, Wylie,” said Belle.

Wylie went into a laundry room that smelled faintly of detergent, then passed down a hallway into the darkened great room. The blinds were closed and Bea hit the lights. His heart fell further. The bicycles stood in rows—good bikes, Wylie saw—and the girls had wiped them shiny and sprayed the tires with dressing and arranged them by type: road bikes in back, then mountain bikes, then various hybrids and specialties. Snowboards were propped up casually against the great room's walls.

“How many boards, girls?”

“Forty-two,” said Beatrice.

“Bikes?”

“Forty-six,” said Belle. “That white Colnago C fifty-nine with the disc brakes went for sixteen grand new. The S-Works Epic was ten grand retail. It's all either good or great stuff. Total bike retail is thirty-nine thousand, not counting those two. And fifty grand more in boards and skis.”

“Did you steal them yourselves?”

“Every single unit,” said Belle.

“How many have you unloaded so far?”

“Not one,” said Beatrice. “That's the beauty of our plan. The deal goes down Sunday morning. One transaction and out. Clean.”

“How much are you getting?”

“Fifteen thousand for the lot. As is. We just have to get everything down to Bishop.”

“Who's your buyer?”

“A friend of a friend who does this kind of thing,” said Belle. “A pro. He started at twelve thousand, but I was extremely firm.”

“You two have truly fucked up,” said Wylie.

“We don't see it that way,” said Belle. “At least I don't.”

Wylie looked at each in turn. “First off, this stuff cost people hundreds of dollars. Some, thousands. Dollars they probably earned, like we do. Maybe they get up at four-thirty in the morning, too. Maybe they work overtime. Did you ever think of that?”

Belle looked down, tapping something invisible on the floor with her boot toe. Then she turned back to Wylie. “We did it for rent, heat, insurance, and a new roof. We did it to keep Let It Bean alive. Not for clothes or makeup or drugs or a custom trailer to go
fishing
in. Don't get holy on us. We did it for us. Which includes
you.
Fifteen thousand, Wylie. That's a good roof over our heads. You have any better way to get that money?”

“I'm working on it.” Wylie walked between the rows of bicycles, his mind bouncing from one dire thought to the next. All it would take right now was a Mammoth cop to see his truck parked in the driveway of this empty house and follow his curiosity. Grand theft. Both juveniles. Detention, expulsion, lawyers, court, bargains, punishment. God knew.

“Is Jolene Little Chief the Bishop friend in question?”

“No,” said Belle.

“No,” said Beatrice. “Actually, could be.”

“Fuck!” Belle snorted. She kicked over one of the hybrid bikes, which toppled down three more. “Why don't you just hold your hands out for the cuffs, Bea?”

Beatrice went to the nearest wall, slid her butt to the floor, and buried her face in her hands.

“Wylie?” asked Belle. “Maybe
you
truly fucked up. Without you, we'd have fifteen thousand Sunday morning and nobody'd know squat about squat.”

Beatrice sobbed. “I'm so unbelievably … exhausted.”

“Shut up, Bea. Who ratted us out, Wylie? Who knew?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Does to me.”

“To take these bikes, you had to make some changes in your appearance. Can you show me to wardrobe, Beatrice?”

“It's back in the garage,” she blubbered.

“You two pick up these bikes and meet me there.”

*   *   *

Wylie stood in the middle of the garage, trying to think, watching the shadows of his sisters moving faintly over the floor stains. From one of the cabinets, Bea brought him a big plastic storage bin containing two costume beards, two pairs of overalls, assorted hats and beanies. A pair of long-handled bolt cutters lay on top. She set it down at his feet. Belle put the pink combination locks back on the two open cabinets, spun the dials, and gave Wylie an unreadable look before coming over to him.

“Whose car were you using?” he asked.

“Claire Hobbs's,” said Beatrice.

“I thought she'd died,” said Wylie.

“She's ninety-nine and doesn't mind us borrowing her car once in a while,” said Belle. “She can't drive it anymore anyway. We sort of trade out for pastries, delivered. She fiends on the whiskey/apricot and Brie Danish.”

He sighed. “Didn't you know that the second someone snapped a picture of the license plate—”

“We got Nevada plates off a junker up in Bridgeport,” said Belle. “We strap them on with rubber bands, then take 'em off when we're done.”

Wylie nodded. “Tell Jolene the deal is off. Don't explain, don't apologize, don't negotiate, and do not change your mind.”

“But we—”

“Zip it, Belle. I give the orders and you follow them.”

“What are we going to do with all this stuff?” asked Beatrice.

“I'll handle it.”

“What if you get caught with it?”

“I'll blame it on you two.”

“I doubt you would,” said Belle.

“I know you wouldn't,” said Beatrice.