Shattered (20 page)

"If you don't want me to call nine-one-one, can I drive you to a hospital? You should at least get your head looked at." Rinko tucked his hand beneath her elbow for support as they all began to move toward the driveway, which would be visible just as soon as they rounded the corner of the house.

"I'll drive her. You've got to take these kids home. It's your van," Jantzen pointed out. "And I can't drive a stick shift. Remember, I told you that."

"Oh, right." Rinko glanced at Jantzen, then hesitated. Reading his face, Lisa was pretty sure she knew what he wanted to say next. Lack of confidence kept the offer from emerging.

"Maybe Rinko could teach you sometime," she said to Jantzen on his behalf. "Being able to drive a stick shift is a useful skill." One she didn't have herself and had never actually needed, but never mind. Probably Jantzen would find it useful. "Look, I can drive myself. And I'm headed to University Hospital, because that's where my mother is, and if I feel the need I'll have someone there look at my head. Anyway, you're going into Lexington, aren't you? You'll be right behind me if I should need help."

As they rounded the corner of the house and her Jag and Rinko's van came into view, Lisa realized she wasn't the only one casting covert, nervous glances around. Nearly everyone else was, too, even the outwardly macho boys.

Maybe they all felt what she did: that someone was watching them. Someone who was hidden in the trees. Her heart picked up the pace again as her gaze fastened on a particularly dense clump of undergrowth.

Did I just see something move there?

What felt like an icy finger slid down Lisa's spine. Staring with all her might, she barely repressed a shiver. There was definitely no movement whatsoever now that she was looking. She couldn't see anything but fat, leafy bushes and closely packed tree trunks and a tangle of weeds and dangling vines.

"It's like you can feel their ghosts." Hanging on to Ashley's arm now, Sarah was wide-eyed as she looked back at the house. Her words expressed Lisa's sentiments exactly.

"Ghosts? If you're talking about the Garcias, they might not even be dead. For all you know, they're off living the good life in California or someplace," Austin said scornfully.

It was possible, Lisa knew. So why did she feel certain that it wasn't true?

"You are so insensitive." Ashley shook her head in disgust. "Of course they're dead. Or somebody would have heard from them by now."

"What, do you think everybody's like E.T.? 'Phone home, phone home
'
?"

"Shut up, Austin," Sarah said.

And on that note they reached the vehicles and quickly piled in.

Even as they pulled out of the driveway and peeled out in tandem toward Lexington, Lisa couldn't get the feeling that they were being watched out of her head.

14

"This place looks like shit."
Scott stood in the middle of the small living room, watching his brother chew hungrily on a slice of the pepperoni pizza Scott had brought with him. It was around ten-thirty p.m., but he'd just gotten there because, hey, he had to work, and tonight work, as it usually did, had run way late. Ryan's flophouse of a one-bedroom apartment was on the top floor of an old brick house on Maxwell Street, and noise from the other tenants penetrated the thin walls. The overhead light was on in the kitchen and a lamp was on beside the couch, but still the place was gloomy-dark. Trash--fast-food wrappers, empty soda and beer cans, old newspapers, you name it--littered every flat surface, including the floor. Discarded clothes draped the furniture and the half-wall that separated the living room from the kitchen. A faint sour smell hung in the air. From where Scott stood, he could see used pans and dishes and utensils piled in the sink. A loaf of bread spilled slices onto the counter. A tub of butter and a jar of jelly--the jelly had a spoon sticking out of it--waited lidless nearby. A carton of milk--he presumed it was empty--lay on its side next to the jelly. A good portion of its contents was on the kitchen floor, he saw as he glanced beneath it, which, as the spill looked to be at least a day old, probably accounted for the smell.

"You come over here to tell me you've got a problem with my housekeeping?" Ryan gave him a less than loving look. He was sitting on the couch, where he'd been watching TV until Scott had picked up the remote and turned it off, saying, "I need to talk to you." Then Scott had gotten distracted by the mess.

Now Scott answered, "Among other things."

Ryan picked up another piece of pizza from the box on the coffee table in front of him. "You don't like the way the place looks, go away. I ain't blocking the door."

Scott's lips thinned, but he didn't reply. A couple of discarded plastic grocery bags lay crumpled on the small round dining table that sat just this side of the kitchen wall, making the room a living room- dining room combination, he supposed. Grabbing a bag, he opened it with an impatient snap and started scooping trash into it. Finishing off his second slice of pizza, his brother gulped part of a Coke from the six-pack Scott had also brought and watched his efforts to dig him out of the mess broodingly.

"Since when did you give a damn what my place looks like?" Putting down the soda, Ryan started in on another slice of pizza.

"Since I walked in the door and practically got knocked down by the smell." Scott realized he was going to run out of bags before he ran out of garbage. Well, maybe there were more in a kitchen cabinet or something. He headed that way to see. The sight of the butter and jelly sitting out was too much for him. Removing the spoon from the jelly, he tossed it in the sink--the clatter made Ryan jump--screwed the lid back on, and opened the refrigerator. As he put the butter and jelly back where they belonged, he took stock of the refrigerator's contents: beer, some old-looking bologna, two hot dogs remaining in a leaky package, a half-empty jar of pickles. Chase hadn't been kidding when he'd said there was nothing to eat in the house.

"When's the last time you went to the grocery?" Scott asked over his shoulder.

"Get the hell out of my refrigerator," Ryan growled.

"I see you've been feeding your kid real good." Scott closed the refrigerator door. "Bologna and pickles, real healthy stuff."

"Look, the only reason I let you in is because you brought pizza with you. It sure wasn't so you could tell me how to run my life."

"You short of money?" The puddle of milk on the floor revolted Scott. Grabbing some paper towels, he wiped it up.

"Hell, yes, I'm short of money. I'm always short of money. Who isn't? And no, I don't want any of yours. I got enough for damn groceries. It's just easier to eat out."

"Or not." Scott's voice was dry as he looked his brother over. Ryan was bone-thin. At least a week's worth of scruff covered his cheeks and chin. His usually short brown hair was longer than Scott had seen it in years, and scraggly. Shades of the old man, he was wearing a wife-beater with baggy jeans kept up by a belt and looked so down-and-out that Scott wanted to shake him. "The kid needs to eat. Like, regular meals."

"What the hell do you know about anything, anyway?"

"I hear Gayle got remarried." Locating a half-full box of garbage bags under the sink, Scott dragged one out, tossed the wad of damp paper towels in, and started filling it as he got to the heart of the matter.

Ryan stopped chewing to glare at him. "Where'd you hear that?" Scott dumped what was left of the milk down the sink and added the empty carton to the bag. "Chase told me."

Blue eyes that were the same color as his own darted around as much of the apartment as Ryan could see.

"Chase ain't here."

Clearly he hadn't been entirely sure without glancing around.

"You know where he is?" If anything had been needed to underline his brother's less than attentive parenting style, that glance had done it. Scott's tone made the question a challenge. With the garbage bag full now and no ties in sight, he knotted the top. Walking back into the living room carrying an empty one, he shook it open and continued the cleanup.

Ryan put the half-eaten slice back in the box, folded his arms over his chest, and glared at him. "What's it to you where my kid is?"

"He's not with Gayle. He's not here. So, I'm asking: Where is he?" An armful of old newspapers, a couple of McDonald's bags, some candy wrappers and beer cans later, and Scott could actually see most of the floor.

"Hangin' with his buds. It's summer. That's what kids his age do. Listen, if you're so interested in kids, have one of your own and leave mine the hell out of it."

"You got a responsibility to him." Having filled it, Scott tied that bag off, too, and carried it into the kitchen.

"I told you--"

"Cut the crap, Ryan." Coming back into the living room, Scott pulled some clothes off a worn blue La-Z-Boy, tossed them on top of the dividing wall with a bunch of others, and sat down, looking intently at his brother. "I can tell looking at you and looking at this place that you've been on a days-long bender. We both know what having a drunk for a dad is like. You really want that for Chase?"

Ryan stiffened. "You want to tell me what business that is of yours?"

"You're my brother. He's my nephew."

Animosity flared in Ryan's eyes. "And you're Mr. Perfect, aren't you? Just like you've always been. Mr. Never Put a Foot Wrong in All His Life."

Scott's eyes narrowed. "You can shove that up your ass."

"Fuck you."

"You're a drunk."

Their eyes locked.

"Just 'cause I drink some don't make me a drunk."

"You trying to bullshit
me
?"

Ryan's face tightened. "Get the hell out of here, why don't you?"

"Nope. I'm here, and I'm staying until I've said my piece. Unless you think you can throw me out."

They exchanged measuring looks. Since he'd hit about fifteen, Scott had always been taller and more muscular than four-years-older Ryan, and the knock-down, drag-out fighting that brothers typically did growing up had ended. From Ryan's expression, the knowledge that he was no physical match for his little brother continued to tick him off.

"Prick," Ryan muttered.

"Hitting your kid is a big no-no nowadays. I don't care what kind of little shit he's being. You do it again and you can expect a visit from Child Protective Services. And me."

"Who said I hit my kid?"

Scott didn't reply, just sat there looking at him. For a long moment neither of them spoke.

"I'm going through a hard time right now, all right?" Ryan burst out.

"Yeah," Scott said. "I know. Gayle getting remarried is a tough one."

Ryan swallowed. "I always thought I'd get her back one day."

"I know."

"You don't know." The look Ryan gave him was bitter. "You've never been married. Just like you've never had a kid. Hell, you damned well live alone. I've been through enough AA programs to know why, too: You got trust issues. You're never going to put your heart on the line enough to fall in love."

Knowing Ryan was trying to get under his skin, Scott let the psychobabble pass.

"Your marriage may be over, but you still have the kid. You've got to get yourself straight for him. You remember what it was like for us, living with Dad."

Ryan's expression turned bitter. "Mean old bastard. I hope he rots in jail. They going to keep him this time?"

Scott shook his head. "They're going to let him out tomorrow. On bail. They set it at fifty grand."

"Shit. You got that much?"

"I'm not posting it. It's a property bond, and believe it or not, his farm's good to cover it. The only reason he's not already out is I got the lawyer I hired looking to see if the judge won't set him going into some kind of live-in rehab program as a condition of bail. He doesn't go to rehab, he stays in jail until trial."

Ryan grimaced. "That's a waste of time and you know it. No damned rehab program exists that can change him."

"Probably not."

"I don't--"

Ryan was interrupted by the opening of the apartment door. With the dimly lit hall visible behind him, Chase stood there, one hand on the knob, his eyes widening as he took in both his father and uncle sitting a few feet apart, looking at him. Scott felt a flicker of amusement as alarm flashed in Chase's eyes. It didn't take a genius to realize the kid was panicking in case he was being told on. Having managed to get both Chase and the truck back to the apartment without Ryan's knowing that either of them had gone anywhere, Scott hadn't seen his nephew since.

He gave the kid a sardonic smile.

"Hey." Recovering, Chase pulled his key from the lock, then closed the door and walked on into the room, tucking the key back into his pocket as his eyes slid away from Scott's face to fasten on the box on the coffee table. "Is that pizza?"

The panic Scott had seen was gone. Chase, he realized, was good at putting on an insouciant front. Just like, he reluctantly recognized, he himself once had been.

Never let 'em see you're scared.
God, he remembered that.

"Yep," Scott said as Chase, with another lightning, faintly wary glance at him, helped himself to pizza.

"Where you been?" Ryan demanded.

"Out." Attacking the pizza with enthusiasm, Chase met his father's eyes. Something in Ryan's expression must have told him that more was required, because he added, mumbling around a mouthful, "I was with some friends from school."

Ryan shot Scott a triumphant look. "See?"

Brows raised, Chase was looking around. "Who cleaned up?"

"I did," Scott said. "You know, I came by to tell your dad about a program I'd like you to join. A bunch of kids your age working a few hours a week this summer at the prosecutor's office."

His nephew's eyes collided with his.

"You gonna pay me?" Chase asked cheekily. The kid had balls, Scott had to give him that.

Scott shook his head. "This is more like an internship. Give you something to do. Keep you out of trouble."

There was the smallest edge of meaning to that last.

Chase grimaced as Ryan looked at Scott. "You didn't say anything about that."