Descendant (Secrets of the Makai) (9 page)

"I'll be honest, boy," said the boyfriend. "I don't like your hiding and I don't like the way you've treated your flesh-n-blood mother."

I was in jail, you idiot.
Why would they think he was hiding?

The man was probably dangerous, but Tristan had heard it all before. He could guess how things would go if he took the man's bait. "Joe's giving us one day to get moved."

The deadline was his, not Joe's. He hoped his mother hadn't already talked to their landlord. "I was packing. To make it faster. Assuming you want this stuff.... Do you?"

The man growled and Tristan clamped his mouth shut. No point in packing up the furniture, destroyed as it was. He needed to seem less anxious about getting to his bedroom. The man tugged his pants up and folded his arms over his Buddha belly.

"What's the plan, then?" Tristan asked. He could've been long-gone by now, if he hadn't considered his mother's truck the quickest way.

"Do I really need to spell it out for you?" His mother left the table for the liquor cabinet, finding it empty.

"Are we moving or not?" Tristan asked. "Can you pay back rent?"

"One more word in that tone, I'll beat you to high heaven and enjoy every minute." The man stepped between Tristan and his mother, pounding his fist in the palm of his hand.

Tristan raised his hands in the universal sign of surrender and walked around the man, toward the hallway to get to his room. He didn't usually feel so driven, but he wasn't about to think he could fight the dude.

He had to get away from this place. Now.

In his room, he found books ripped open and thrown to the floor. Boxes from the corner were dumped upside down, along with drawers from his desk. His mattress lay slashed and thrown aside. The removable molding was clearly visible where the bed had been, but not out of place. Which hopefully meant his cash was safe.

His backpack must have been one of the first things searched—before the desire to destroy everything came into play. A quick glance in the side pocket proved what he suspected—his pocketknife was missing, his only real weapon.

He retrieved the money and quickly stuffed half the stack in his front pockets, the second half in each of his socks. If they searched him, hopefully finding a quarter of the money would be enough. If they weren't satisfied and searched both pockets, they'd only get half. He replaced the molding and dropped beside his backpack, making to look as though he'd been putting school papers back in place. He didn't think the man was looking for the map, but tucked it in with his lecture notes to be on the safe side.

"Find anything interesting?" said the man, filling the doorway.

Tristan kept his eyes on his notebook, stuffing it into the backpack. "I have homework to do at the library." He'd leave tonight, though the thought of packing schoolwork instead of clothing made his teeth clench.

"Don't look at me like that."

Why was the guy so desperate to start a fight? "Whatever." Tristan regretted it instantly and the man stepped forward. A crash in the closet startled them both. The man crossed the room, ripped the sliding door from its track, and threw it against the wall.

With nothing but harmless boxes in the closet, the man glared at Tristan, biceps flexing. "What does it take to get a straight answer from you?"

Now in a throwing mood, the man picked up an empty desk drawer and threw it at Tristan. He blocked it with his backpack and tried to think of something logical to cool the man down. "Whatever you guys do is fine. I figure I'm off to do my own thing."

A cement block from his makeshift bookcase flew over his shoulder, busting clean through the bedroom window. The nailed bed sheet swooshed away with it.

Tristan grabbed the backpack and made a run for the front room. All he needed was cash, and he had it.

His mother stood in the living room, waiting for him. "You can't leave. We still have unfinished business to discuss."

The man blocked the hall to his room. Tristan backed up until he hit the front door. At least they were both in view.

"Let's see how far you get," the man said, pulling out Tristan's own pocketknife as he walked to stand beside his mother. Would she let him use a knife?

"Where's the money?" she asked, standing with hands on her hips. "You owe me."

"Money from what? I've been spending paychecks on…." Tristan scratched his head, drawing a complete blank for what kids spent money on if they weren't saving to run away from home.

His mother gripped the man's arm just as the knife spun toward him, stabbing into the door above his right shoulder with a wobbling thud.

The man glared at her. "Don't play games if you ain't willin' to get dirty." He pulled a small handgun from the back of his waistband.

"We don't need to kill him quite yet, is all," she said.

Tristan stared at his mother, astonished. It wasn't that she'd never threatened his life before, she had, but this was a step further. He heard her mentally debating the chances of getting caught, the necessity of it all, and the fact that she wasn't sure she could hold back her addictions if Tristan wasn't there to keep her in line.

How did he keep her in line? He avoided her as much as possible. But whatever made her mess up the man's aim, he was glad. Until her thoughts swung the other way:
Too much risk to kill him like this, in his own home, with Jimmy's prints on the knife. An easy fix. Jimmy has a record that would work in my favor.

"If you do as you're told," his mother said calmly, "you just might walk away."

Tristan heard opposite thoughts from the man. But at least his mom was still undecided.

"I expect you to empty your pockets," the man said, Jimmy according to his mother's thoughts. "Hand over the money."

"What money?" Tristan bit his lip. How did they know he had any money at all? The guy wasn't drunk enough to miss at ten feet with a gun.

"Because I aim to see she gets it." Jimmy raised the gun to make his point. "Before it's covered in blood. We know you have money somewhere."

His mother sighed.
So much easier to take care of your father.

Tristan held his breath and stared at his mother. She rarely thought of his father—not even when asked a direct question. But something about her tone made him angry, made him want to pry into her secrets. It had been years since he tried to get proof of his suspicions and this would be his last chance.

He ignored the gun, and whatever the man was saying. "Did you...have my real dad murdered?" Every time he and his mother moved to a new state, Tristan left a few clues behind, hoping his father had really faked his death and had stayed one step behind them. He knew it was childish thinking, but what a fool he'd been. "Seriously. You're going to kill me anyway, right?"

"Well...." His mother exchanged a quick glance with the man. "Things are much different now." She lit another cigarette, inhaling deeply before continuing. "You were with him when it happened. I'll admit it was a little harsh to think about killing you then, mostly because I didn't know you like I do now. After all, it wasn't all your fault things weren't working between your father and I. You were just a baby."

Tristan hadn't known he'd been in the car crash and shut his mouth. He had to hear this out–his mother's words and thoughts–before automatically accusing her of lying.

"He was a terrible father, half mad if you ask me, always thinking people were out to kidnap you. Or kill you. Drove me insane. He wouldn't even put you in the back with the carseat, letting you ride in his lap while he drove. We'd get pulled over by the cops and did that teach him a lesson? No."

Her thoughts explained she was dealing drugs at the time and the last thing she needed was police attention in the car. She'd hoped the baby would be taken by the state to make life easier, or for his own safety, but they never did.

"By the time you were three," she continued, "I'd taken all I could handle. I had a friend work on the brakes, and paid him good money to make a few mistakes. I didn't know when it would happen, but I knew I wouldn't be in the car, and that you would. He took you everywhere."

Tristan swallowed hard, hearing the thoughts behind the words. The hardest part for her was putting on a show for everyone they knew, playing the loving wife and doting parent so no one would think she had motivation. Gloria the grieving widow.

"But you survived. And you proved useful a time or two. Who in their right mind suspects a single parent—" She cut her words short, but continued thinking about the clever ways she'd been able to keep illegal things hidden in plain sight with a toddler in tow. "That's why I kept you. I even had a legal way to get rid of you when you were six, and didn't take it. So be grateful."

"Grateful?" Tristan stared at the woman who claimed to be his mother.

"I had legal papers to have you committed by the state of North Carolina and all I had to do was drive you to the institution. Of course, it took some doing to prove you were dangerous to yourself and others to sway your shrink. But in the end, he agreed. The documents were completely legal and justified. I think I still have them somewhere...."

Tristan could only blink in horror.

"Oh, don't act so shocked. Look at yourself! You're hardly a well-adjusted, socially acceptable, stable person. And it creeps me out the way you know stuff. I can see Jimmy as, well, putting you out of your misery. It's the least I can do for you, and it's the only way I can move on with my life." She took another long drag on her cigarette, eyeing the man nervously as he picked up a small couch pillow. "What's that for?"

Even Tristan knew that one.

"It'll muffle the shot, a little at least," the man answered. "I ain't goin' to no meat locker for this."

"But the plan…." She shut up when Jimmy glared at her, then narrowed her eyes at Tristan. "Nothing since your birth has been good for me...except Jimmy here." She smiled brightly and patted his bulbous tattooed arm. "He'll fix it for me and we'll live happily ever after."

Tristan closed his eyes and sagged against the door, hearing his mother make up her mind to let Jimmy do whatever he thought best. Tristan had been willing to die on his own terms, but certainly not like this. And not now when he had a mission to accomplish. Sort of. If he could figure out what he was supposed to do.

"Now," Jimmy ordered, taking aim with the pillow placed over the tiny barrel. "Empty your pockets before I lose my patience."

"Do what he says, Tristan. Everything will be much nicer if you do."

"Nicer for who?" Tristan noticed a person's head just outside the dining room window, along with the motion of a hand to scoot over. Tristan stepped to the side of the door and squatted to fumble with his backpack.

"Get up. What are you doing?" the man asked, making nervous adjustments to the cushion against the front of his gun. "I said to empty your pockets!"

"It's at the bottom of the backpack. I'm getting it." Tristan unzipped the pack and pulled items from the bag one at a time, setting each carefully onto the carpet.

"Dump it or I'll kill you and do it myself!"

"Drop your weapon," commanded a calm voice, "and don't move." A police officer stepped in from the bedroom hall, pointing a gun at Jimmy. "We have you surrounded."

On cue, two additional officers fell into position from the front and back doors.

"I said, drop your weapon."

Jimmy dropped the cushion but not the gun. Tristan held his breath, forced through Jimmy's thought process of choosing a target: Tristan, to finish what he'd started, or the officer at the front door for practicality.

"Give me one reason to pull the trigger," said the first officer.

Jimmy finally concluded both targets were suicidal and the woman wasn't worth it. He lowered his gun. The officers at the hall and front door kept their guns steady on Jimmy and Tristan's mother, as a cop from the back door cuffed and searched Jimmy for other weapons, finding a flashy butterfly knife in an ankle holster.

Tristan moved out of the way as the officer from the front door cuffed his mother. She and Jimmy were both escorted outside, leaving Tristan alone with the first officer.

"How did you know—" Tristan froze, hearing a few random thoughts as confusion clouded the officer's sharp eyes.

"Weren't you the kid that ran from a murder scene a few weeks ago?"

"A few...weeks?" Hadn't he been in jail and set free when his alibi checked out?

"No, I suppose not." The officer blinked and shook his head. "The property manager thought there might be trouble and called us. I heard the window break, and then your neighbor rushed out and said she heard gunshots. Who in their right mind rushes out when they hear gunshots?" The officer rolled his eyes. "Crazy old people."

Tristan rubbed his temples to ease a brewing headache. "There were no gunshots. He never fired."

"Well, I'm glad nothing happened while we got in position." The gun was put away and the officer relaxed. "I had plenty of time to hear her confession. We'll be arresting them both."

Tristan smiled slightly, still confused by the officer's reaction to his involvement with the woman's murder.