The Unwilling(63)

“I just want to ask a few questions.”

“Last chance, son.”

After that, three things happened simultaneously. I opened my mouth, took a step, and someone hit me in the stomach so hard and fast it bent me in half. The old man said, “Outside,” and that’s where they took me, through a metal door and into the dark behind the building. They threw me down. I tried to breathe.

“Do we know him?” An unfamiliar voice.

Someone else said, “He looks like his older brother.”

“What brother?”

“Jason French.”

“No shit?” The old man gripped my hair and twisted my head for a better look. “What’s your name?”

“Gibby…” I choked on the name, tried again. “Gibby French.”

He twisted harder, got some light on my face. “Here’s the thing, Gibby French. Angels’ business is my business. Why are you asking about my business?”

“All I want to do is help my brother.”

A voice said, “Tyra Norris. Somebody cut her up.”

“Yeah, well. Tyra. I can’t worry much about her.” He let me go, and my head hit pavement. “I don’t mind the idea of your brother in prison, either. Good for the club, good for me.”

I rolled onto my back, gravel and grit grinding into my skin. “He didn’t kill her.”

“Nobody here cares.”

“I want to talk about the fight.”

“Talk? That’s it?”

“That’s it and that’s all.”

“Well, I’ve got news for you, kid.” He dragged me up, crazy strong. “This has never been a talking kind of place.”

He hit me hard; bent me in half a second time. He swung again, high to low, right in the face. I hit the ground, blood streaming.

“Get up,” he said.

I tried to do it, but took a boot in the ribs because I didn’t do it fast enough. I heard a door open, and saw the bartender looking down, skinny and pale as he said, “Hey, uh, can you maybe, uh, not do it here? This job is all I have, and the manager is already looking to fire me. I’m thinking … you kill this kid, then cops and such…”

“Oh, is that what you’re thinking?” A disgusted look crossed the old biker’s face. “Go on, then. Bring your truck around. We’ll take this party down the street.”

The old biker turned away, and I didn’t even think about it, just drove with my legs, put a shoulder on his belt, and slammed him into the wall. With blood in my eyes, I couldn’t see much, but I could feel him, the old fucker. I got two good ones on the ribs and a couple on his face before someone pulled me off. I swung wild, and felt a lip burst. Then I was on the ground, and a dozen boots were working hard to keep me there. They swung in and out, and the world became a simple thing.

At first, it was pain.

Then it was the truck.

Then it was the ditch.





23


Across town, Gibby’s parents ate a late dinner alone. French was angry at his son’s absence, but so pleased with his wife the anger didn’t matter. She laughed, and touched his hand, her lips bright with five years of forgotten smile. Pouring wine, he asked, “Why are you so happy tonight?”

Strangely timid, she shook her head. “I feel guilty talking about it.”

“You’re allowed to be happy.”

“But Jason is still … He’s still…”

“Sweetheart, Jason is beyond us now. Whatever we believe or wish to believe, it’s up to the system.”

“What do you believe?”

She posed the question in such a quiet, small manner that she seemed childlike to French. He placed his hand on hers. “Tonight, all I want to talk about is you.” She looked away, but it was clear the comment pleased her. “This feels fresh—this moment. I don’t want to lose it. Look at me, okay? Tell me your thoughts.”

“You’ll hate me for them.”

“I won’t.”

“But you will. I know you will.” She lowered her eyes, and a single tear hung on her lashes. “It’s been so hard…”

“But you’re happy now. Won’t you tell me why?”

“You won’t be angry?”

“Never.”

She looked up, and her damp eyes filled with trust. Leaning so their faces were inches apart, she said in a soft and smiling whisper, “I don’t feel him anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“In my heart, I don’t feel him. Jason,” she said, and the childlike smile was back.



* * *



That image stayed with French long after he’d taken his wife to bed. Lying in the darkness beside her, he studied the workings of his own troubled conscience.

What do I believe about my son?

Since Jason’s arrest, French had walled himself away from as much emotion as possible, and, perhaps, he admitted now, from critical thought as well. That detachment had offered shelter and security, but he felt cracks in the foundations of those walls; and it was his wife who’d unsettled his defenses.

In my heart, I don’t feel him …

French understood the need for self-protection, but could no longer hide from the more difficult truths. Too much of his son remained: the memory of his birth, the smallness of his hand. Rising in silence, he carried his guilt to the study, where he kept things dark, and dialed his partner’s number from feel. “Are you still up?” he asked.