KIN (26 page)

"I got plenty trouble of my own without you bringin' more."

"They won't come lookin' for us here."

"Who's they?"

"Coyotes. They killed my boy, and turned another one against me."

Teeth appeared in the dark tangle of beard as Krall smiled. "Weren't them turned your boy against you, I reckon."

"What does that mean?"

"Means you a goddamn hypocrite, and a loon. And that ain't the first time I've told you that neither, so quit lookin' surprised. You was standin' in my woodshed the day I told my sister the same thing. Told her she were makin' a mistake runnin' off with the likes of you. Saw it on your face every time you turned up, knew you'd be nothin' but trouble, and here you are tellin' me you lost your boys on account've someone else." He shook his head. "You ain't no man," he said. "You ain't nothin'. Way I see it, no God in his right mind'd have anythin' to do with you."

The frustration was gone in an instant. Papa grit his teeth. In a fight, he'd die at this man's hands, but at that moment he felt his temper flaring, heating his skin from the inside out until he was sure it made the air shimmer between them. He wasn't accustomed to being insulted, but then, there were a lot of things happening lately he wasn't accustomed to, none of them good. Mama-In-Bed had whispered that it meant the end was coming, the end of times, if only theirs, but to Papa that meant the same thing. He lived for his kin, except when they got themselves poisoned and turned against him. Then the coyotes could tear them asunder for all he cared. Otherwise, he was prepared to kill, and die for them until God reached down and plucked them up to face His judgment, and when that happened, Papa knew they'd be celebrated as angels for the work they'd done on a world gone to hell.

In years past he might have attempted to convert Krall to his way of thinking, to guide him in painstakingly slow steps into the light. But there was no salvation for a man so full of hate and loathing. Krall was ignorant, stuck in exile but closer than most to the eyes of God and yet he forever stood with his back to Him. Such disdain spoke volumes, and Papa decided the only thing left to do was tell the man the other reason he'd come, and see what happened next.

He watched as Krall scooped up the burlap sack and jerked open the tie.

"The tarp you seen before you came in," Papa said.

Krall did not look up as he spoke. Instead he frowned and yanked a skinned fox out of the bag by its hind legs. Drops of blood speckled the floor. "What is it if ain't a present?"

Papa exhaled slowly, his body tense. "Your sister," he said.

-22-

He didn't know how long he'd been listening to the men in the street. Occasionally he was able to make out their words, but not enough for him to be able to figure out what could be so important that they would need to gather down there in the cold at this time of night. But although the subject remained a mystery to him, the tone did not. Someone among them was angry, and when Pete finally tired of listening and returned to his mattress of cushions on the floor, that anger culminated in a gunshot that rattled the windows and startled a cry out of him.

Immediately he was on his feet and back at the window but his frightened breath occluded his view. Nevertheless he got the impression of scattering bodies as the car once more rumbled to life. The echo of the shot had not yet faded before he heard the bedroom door open behind him.

"Wayne, that you?"

Pete turned and saw Louise standing in the doorway of her room, the light from the streetlamps showing the concern etched on her face.

"No," he told her. "It's me."

"Pete. Did you hear that shot? Where's Wayne?"

He nodded. "He told me to tell you he went for cigarettes."

She brushed past him and hurried to the window. Despite his curiosity, he stayed where he was, watching as she blocked out the light and rubbed the ghosts of his breath from the glass.

"There's someone down there," she said, a note of panic making her voice high and tremulous. "I think someone's been shot."

Pete stood dumb, waiting for whatever was to happen next. Louise turned and looked at him, wringing her hands together. In her haste she hadn't tied the robe properly, and now it slid open. Though she was now backlit by the window and therefore all but cloaked in shadow, Pete averted his eyes anyway.

"When did he leave?"

"I dunno," he told her. "Maybe an hour ago. Your robe's come opened."

She seemed to take a minute to register this, then cursed and when next he looked, she'd cinched it tight around herself and was rushing toward him. "I want you to call 911. There's a phone in the bedroom. Can you do that for me?"

He nodded, because he was knew he was supposed to, but he had never had to call 911 before and wasn't entirely sure what it might entail beyond dialing the numbers.

"Tell them someone's been shot at 663 Harrison Avenue. Can you remember that?"

He watched her dig her feet into slippers. "Yes."

"Good. Give me your coat."

"My coat?"

"Yes, I need it.
Quickly
."

"You ain't goin' down there, are you?"

"Pete..."

He did as she asked and handed it over.

"You want me to come with you?"

"No." Shrugging on his jacket, she hurried to the door. "Stay here," she said without looking back, then jerked open the door of the apartment.

A shadow stepped in front of her, blocking her path, but she was still looking back at Pete and hadn't yet noticed.

The boy froze, felt a word of warning rush up his throat but it died before it hit the air, drowned out by Louise's scream as the man pushed his way into the apartment and slammed the door shut behind him.

"Please...don't..." Louise said, her voice brittle with panic.

"Shut your goddamn mouth," the man said, and as Pete's eyes adjusted, he could see that his initial assumption that it was Wayne he was looking at, perhaps angry because of something the men down in the street had said to him, was wrong. This man was shorter, thinner, and his voice higher in pitch than Wayne's had been. Also, though Pete hadn't studied Wayne too closely, he was sure he hadn't had a gun.

"Red," Louise said, cinching her robe even tighter and hugging herself. "Wayne ain't here."

Red looked furtively around the darkened apartment, as if following the path of an agitated bird. "I know he ain't," he said tersely. "Your boy's down there in the street with a big hole in his chest.

Louise said nothing, but started to shake her head.

Pete stood rooted to the spot with fear. He was unable to register what he'd just heard. Wayne, the man who had taken his mother away from him had gone out to buy cigarettes, or to talk to those men, and now he was lying down there shot? He couldn't quite understand how or why that had happened, and wasn't entirely sure how he felt about it if it was true. His attention was fixed on the man with the gun, and Louise, who looked terrified.

"The fuck's this?" the gunman said, jerking the weapon in Pete's direction.

Louise didn't answer.

"The fuck're you?" he asked again, looking at Pete.

"I...Louise is my second Mom."

"
Day
um," said Red, and raised the hand holding the gun to chuckle into his wrist before leveling it at Pete. "You think you're some kind of hero? You thinkin' about messin' my shit up in here?"

Pete shook his head. "No, sir."

Red smiled, his teeth gleaming a dull metallic color in the gloom. "That's right. Yes
sir
. You don't fuck with me, we all be cool, geddit?"

"Why are you doin' this?" Louise asked between sobs. Her head was lowered. "Why are you here?"

Red turned his attention back to her. "Take a seat. You and the kid. Sit down on that sofa and get comfortable. Wayne's got somethin' I need. Once I get it, I'll be on my way, and then you can go back to playin' house with my little homeboy here."

Louise didn't move.

"Hey babe?" Red said, leaning in close.

Slowly she raised her head to look at him.

"Do what I fuckin'
tell
you to do," he said, and in a flash, his hand was in her hair. He pulled hard and sent her sprawling across the arm of the couch. Instinctively, Pete made to move forward, whether to help her or tackle the man who had hurt her, he wasn't sure. His insides were on fire, his whole body quaking with the need to do
something
. And that something was fueled by anger at what he had just seen.

"Don't hurt her," he told Red. "Don't you put your hands on her again."

Red smiled and raised his hands. "Easy there, Shaft. Just helpin' her out is all. She don't hear too good. You know how bitches are. All mouth."

"Don't touch her," Pete said again. "She ain't done nothin' to you."

"Not yet," Red said, and began to move toward where Pete still stood fists clenched by his sides, trembling. "But who knows where the night might lead."

As the man approached him, Pete tensed himself for the same pain he had managed to forgive when it came from the fists of his father, and was surprised when the man veered away and stopped before the television set.

"Let's see what's on," Red said, and took a step back. Pete's eyes fell to the man's gun, which was now close enough for him to grab if he wanted to. But as if sensing his intention, the man looked over his shoulder at him. "Go help your Momma, kid, or I'll put so many holes in you you'll look like a salt shaker."

Pete did as he was told. He sat down on the couch and watched as the man reared back and launched a kick at the TV screen. It toppled from its stand but did not shatter. Red kicked it again, harder this time, and the glass exploded under his heel with a dull
whump
. Blue sparks sizzled and hissed. A thin wreath of smoke rose from the exposed hole in the front of the TV.

From his pocket, Red produced a small pen-sized object, thumbed it and a thin ray of light pierced the smoke. Despite his fear and anger, Pete was curious. He'd never seen such a small flashlight before, and immediately felt the urge to ask the man to let him see it. An urge he quickly repressed. Instead, he put his hand on Louise's back as she straightened and sat on the arm of the couch. She was sniffling and rubbing her nose. He wanted to tell her it was going to be all right, that any minute now the man would leave them alone, but he wasn't sure that was true, and didn't want to lie. So he said nothing, and watched as the man fished something out of the guts of the TV.

"All right," Red said appreciatively, and quickly pocketed the item, which had looked to Pete like a small pouch of some kind. Then once more, the man's attention turned to them.

"See, now that wasn't such a big deal, right?" Red asked as he approached them, stepping over Pete's long legs to get to Louise. "Hey," he said, and she raised her head to look at him. Her mascara had run, making her eyes seem hollow and empty.

"Wayne told me you said he was lazy. That made him feel real bad, you know." He smiled, revealing the lie in his words. "So he came to me, and I hooked the brother up. He made some good money." He patted his pocket. "Trouble with that piece of shit was he was greedy, and the boys he workin' for don't tolerate that, know what I'm sayin?"

"He was your cousin," Louise said.

Red shrugged. "Yeah, but shit, I didn't cap 'im. I ain't that cold, Louise."

"So what now? You just goin' to walk outta here after what you've done. You just goin' to leave us here to talk to the cops?" Her voice, though unsteady, was rising, as anger told hold. "Or are you gonna do what the other thugs told you to do and kill us both?"

Red stared at her for a moment, then glanced at Pete. "Get your ass up for a sec." He waggled the gun and Pete rose from the couch and moved back toward the shattered TV, which was still trailing smoke. Red sat in his place and put his hand on Louise's knee. Instantly, she snatched it and shoved it away. In response, he shoved the muzzle of the gun up under her chin, forcing her head back. Louise bared her teeth, the muscles in her neck visible even in the feeble light. Again, instinct propelled Pete toward them, but Red spoke without looking at him. "Lot easier for me to pull this trigger than it will be for you to try to fight me, kid."

Pete stopped, agonized by helplessness.

*

Louise grunted against the strain, her eyes fixed on Pete.
Stay where you are. Do as he says and we'll be fine.
But nothing was going to be fine. She knew it, and she knew Pete knew it. Here, in this cold dank apartment in a frozen city she hated, she was going to die, along with the boy who'd escaped his own misery to find her.

Still holding the gun under her chin, Red brought his other hand up and slipped it inside her robe. She flinched. His hands were cold, his skin rough. She closed her eyes. "Stop," she pleaded, weakly. The urge to strike out at him was great, but she knew she would not get very far before he pulled the trigger and ended her life.

"Told you I ain't gonna hurt you," Red said as he massaged her breast. "But today, maybe tomorrow, someone you don't know's probably gonna stop by and do what I ain't got it in me to do, know what I'm sayin'? Wayne was a fuck-up, honey. Real loser. He made enemies faster than most folks make spit. Made a whole lot of people out there mad as hell. Tonight they took care of one problem. You, and I guess the boy now, are another one. Talk to the cops all you like, is what I'm sayin' here. Won't make no difference."