Blood Brothers (35 page)

“What game?”

“Michael, I know we go back a good long time,
but I must caution you, I don’t like being interrupted.”

“Whatever you say.” The man’s calm voice
contrasted with the blur of the townscape as the Porsche rocketed
down the road. Since there was no cruiser, Michael made a rather
wise judgment in taking another turn and dropping his speed. If the
cops hadn’t found him on their own, he’d be damned if one would
just because they noticed him racing around. Besides, until he
learned more from Jerry he was, if effect, simply spinning his
wheels.

“Now that’s what I like to hear. Now, one
cannot play a game with any chance of success of winning without
knowing the basic rules of said game. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes.” Michael was being patronized, but he
saw he had no choice.

“Here is what you must do. First, do not go
home. By now the Reddick home is a blazing inferno, and the police
dispatched to check the tip won’t have much luck until the fire
department can cool the crime scene down. Second, do not stop your
car. For any reason. If a police officer, sheriff’s deputy, state
trooper or even a meter maid tries to pull you over, you keep
going. No matter what. Head north out of Benedict. Take Salem Road
until it branches with Mount Wacomas and start up. I’ll call again.
Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You play this well, Michael, you’ll
allow the two people you should care for most in the world to
live.”

“How do I know they’re still alive?”

“You don’t.”

“I want to talk to them.”

“No.”

“Come on, Jerusalem. I’m playing along with
you. I’m doing as you ask. You have to give me something. You have
to.”

“No, Mikey, I do not. Seems like I gave you
more than enough two decades ago. And you’ve been taking ever
since.” The connection broke and Jerry was gone.

Michael was sick to his stomach—only using
the word ‘sick’ was a gross understatement.

His mind was running a thousand miles a
minute as he crossed of the town limit and headed north, just as
Jerry ordered. He knew where he was going. In his opinion, Jerry’s
father’s house was a fitting location for their confrontation. It
had changed both their lives all those years ago and whatever was
to happen in the next short while would undoubtedly change them
once more. If either had a life left to change when it was all said
and done.

He was no fool. Jerusalem Garrett had come
here to bleed him of every penny he had. But even then, before
things had gone so horribly wrong on both their ends, there had
been no intention of Michael surviving their reunion. But with
Stephanie and Christal at stake, Michael was not about to go down
without one hell of a fight.

When this was all over, no matter what
happened to him, his heart would beat long enough to make sure his
family was safe. Somehow, someway.

Then

Tall oaks lined the drive as Jerry gunned the
Trans Am. A rolling green lawn, formidable and expansive even in
the moonlight, lay to either side of the drive and up on the right
was the house.

The Garrett place was easily the largest,
grandest house Michael had ever seen in natural life. Modeled after
the Southfork Ranch, the mansion the Ewing family had made famous
on the television show “Dallas,” Jerry’s father spared no expense
in recreating it as accurately as possible, importing architects
from across the country.

It was no secret that Garrett was a wealthy
man. It was also public knowledge that he had not acquired his
money from his salary. The four year term had been enough for him
and he didn’t even campaign for reelection. Jerry’s father, it was
said, had a true knack for stock trading. Years before the term
‘Day Trading’ was coined, Garrett made the largest fortune that
Benedict had ever seen playing not only stocks, but commodities,
funds and bonds. With a degree in economics from his home state of
Colorado, it was only a matter of time before he moved from public
service and the elected office, in which he’d been working since he
began his career, starting out as a paralegal, then on to a county
supervisor, then city council member, and into the seat of interim
mayor in Benedict. His one and only mayoral election had been a
landslide, really, one for the history books. When he announced he
would not be seeking reelection, there was public outcry. He was
not only a popular town administrator, but he was a respected one
as well. That mix was not always found in the same person.

While he now held no office, Dalton Garrett
was still in place as a power player. In fact, some folks argued
that though Houghton Griffin was the town’s duly elected mayor,
Dalton Garrett still called the shots that counted.

A few months ago Jerry had divulged to
Michael how much he thought his father was worth. Not as a matter
of pride but something more along the lines of, “That son of a
bitch. Got ten million in a bank account, so he thinks he knows
best for every-goddamned-body.” It was hard, no, strike that, it
was impossible for Michael to wrap his head around a million. But
ten million? Forget about it.

Parked in its usual place was Dalton
Garrett’s shiny black BMW M5. It seemed to Michael that every
luxury car they made just happened to be black. So much so that
every time he allowed himself to slip into fantasy, the car he was
driving, which changed from time to time, was any color but black.
Michael Cole didn’t aspire to be just financially secure one day.
No, sir, his fantasies had him rich as a king. After all, if you
were going to dream, shouldn’t you dream big?

Michael Cole was at poverty level. His father
got a check in the mail once a month from welfare, but even with
his part-time job, Mike, who got no assistance of any kind from his
father, except maybe some old toast or cold pizza left behind,
barely managed to keep a shirt on his back. If not for his
daydreams, he would undoubtedly be so mournful of his situation
that he would be unable to retain his sanity.

Michael Cole had no talent that would propel
him to the level of wealth to which he aspired. He was a good
football player, but even if he managed a scholarship to a decent
school, he had no illusions that he was pro material. The best
reality that he could hope for was to earn a four-year degree and
land an office job earning, at best, sixty thousand a year. That
kind of salary didn’t buy many BMW M5s.

In his mind, nevertheless, things were much
different: he’d be dressed in finely tailored suits, his shoes
shining so brightly he could comb his hair by them, a wallet full
of cash, a trophy wife on his arm, the envy of everyone. He would
have women, eat at fine restaurants, and have the biggest house
anyone in Benedict had ever seen. He didn’t have a plan to attain
such a life, however, but he figured that he might amass a small
savings account and buy a few stocks, maybe upstarts, and see where
that took him. Hell, if Dalton Garrett could do it, so could
Michael Cole, right?

Jerry pulled to a stop behind his father’s
car. Michael looked around but didn’t see Shelia’s station wagon.
This meant, in Mike’s eyes, that she had been picked up by Dalton
and brought back here. That bespoke familiarity to a whole new
level. Something was not good about that. Okay, so a father banging
his son’s girl wasn’t good, but the absence of a second vehicle
shows, in a way, that this was not the first time, or at least that
this encounter had been well orchestrated. Unless of course, they’d
fled in her station wagon. That would explain a lot as well. “Are
they still here?”

A laugh. “Yeah, partner. They’re not going
anywhere.”

“What did you do?” Mike’s voice growing
grave.

“Nothing much,” Jerry said, then catching
Mike’s meaning, “there’re still breathing. Not that they deserve to
be. But they are…for now.”

That did not sound good to Mike. He was fine
with being a source of emotional support for his best friend. There
was no way he wouldn’t be there for him in a time like this. But
there were limits.

Weren’t there?

“Any more beer down there?”

Michael rustled the bag at his feet. “Nope.
All gone.”

“Just as well. I have a taste for something a
bit stronger.” Jerry pushed open his door and swung his feet out.
“Let’s go.”

Michael followed him to the front door, all
the while hoping that perhaps headlights would fall of them from an
upcoming car. He hoped an earthquake would hit, shaking the ground
so violently that they’d have to search out cover. Hoped for an
instant flood, the clouds opening up and letting loose a year’s
worth of rain. Even an alien invasion, anything that would change
this situation, and allow him a means of escape. But the ground was
still, the night clear and if any UFO’s were, at this moment,
entering the earth’s atmosphere, it wasn’t over this little piece
of Benedict, Mississippi.

Jerry let them in the house, walking in as if
it were just another Friday night and he was in from a date or
party. That was the thing with Jerry, he possessed a well of
confidence and bravado that he could seemingly summon at will.

The floor was highly polished tile. While the
exterior was a copycat of the famous sitcom mansion, Dalton had
chosen his own style of interior decorating. Not that it was any
less grand for that. The foyer opened into a grand room with a dual
staircase wrapping around to a landing halfway. From that landing
two stairways, one on either side, led to the second floor. In the
great room, small trees were potted in tall, ornate urns, a table
sat mid-center holding a colorfully vibrant floral arrangement, and
high above the arrangement was a beautiful eye-catching chandelier.
If you didn’t know the owner of this house was loaded by looking at
this one room, you were as dumb as a dirty rock.

Michael’s eyes fell rationally upon the
stairs. Rationally because the stairs led upwards. Upwards was
where the bedrooms were. Bedrooms being Dalton’s and Jerry’s. He
hadn’t said in which bed he’d found the two, his father and his
lover, but Michael was taking a good guess it had been in the
master bedroom.

That was why he didn’t know what to think
when Jerry started off in the direction of his father’s study.
“Come on, Mike. Let’s have us a drink first.”

It was the word ‘first’ that tickled its way
through Mike’s ears and into his brain. The way Jerry had said it
sounded like it meant something very important, as if it left
something serious unsaid. Michael swallowed, his throat dry as sand
in a scorching desert.

This night was going to get very bad, he just
knew it. And all that badness wouldn’t be long in coming.

* * *

When Jerry had said he was ready for
something a little stronger, he hadn’t been lying. The way he
started pounding it back, Michael found he had the slightest
glimmer of hope that he’d get so stoned on the top shelf liquor in
his father’s cabinet that he’d simply pass out or better yet, stand
up, trip over his own feet and crack his head on the way down,
rendering him unconscious for a good eight to twelve hours. No such
luck was in the cards, however. Finishing off the bottle of Crown
Royal, Jerry stood, looking just as stone cold sober as the day he
was born. Michael figured that having your whole world ripped away
by a lustful tryst would take more than liquor to quell.

For his part, Michael made himself a scotch
and soda, but merely sipped. No particular fan of scotch, he simply
liked the way the bottle looked. He tried engaging Jerry in
conversation, but he merely sat in the leather chair slugging
straight from the bottle, his resolve growing stronger with each
sip. What that resolve might entail, Michael had no way of
knowing.

While apprehensive about what lay ahead, he’d
also grown tired of waiting. The anticipation was wearing him thin
and god dammit, he was just ready for something.

Or so he thought.

Jerry may have stood well enough, but as
Michael followed him out of the library, into the great room and
onto the stairs, it was easy to see that his balance wasn’t what it
usually was. It could have been the bad ankle, but Michael surmised
that Jerusalem Garrett was just as susceptible to the effects of
alcohol as every other human being, no matter what burden lay on
his heart.

Halfway up the first rise of stairs Michael
said, “Listen, I know you’re upset, Jer, but whatever you’ve got
your mind set on, you should really think about it.”

“Mikey, old buddy, old pal, some things in
life just can’t be tolerated. Some insults demand decisive
measures. Don’t worry, though,” Jerry stopped at the landing and
looked back at his friend. Michael could see the effort his eyes
went to just focusing on him. Yep, Jerry was stone cold drunk.
“We’re not going to kill anyone. But by God, we’re going to teach
them a lesson.”

At least that brought Michael some relief. As
they continued on to Jerry’s room, he let out a silent sigh of
relief. No matter how angry and drunk Jerry might be, he couldn’t
believe he would be an accomplice to murder this night. Jerry was
crazy, but he wasn’t stupid. But what was wrong with giving Dalton
and Shelia a little scare? If such an action wasn’t justified,
Michael didn’t know what was.

“Where are they? In there?” Michael
questioned as they stopped at Jerry’s door.

“No, in that mother fucker’s bed. Tied up.
I’ve just got to get something. Didn’t want to leave this house
with it.” Michael nodded. In twelfth-grade English he’d been
reading a lot of literature and found he was quite fond of it. He’d
never been much of a reader, besides skin magazines, and he enjoyed
the escapism of the stories he found within the pages of books the
teacher selected. He enjoyed the drama of the tale and the
voyeuristic way one lived, at least for a while, with the
characters. While the literature he read was as varied as grains of
sand on the world’s largest beach, they all held some of the same
characteristics. All stories had beginnings, middles, and ends. And
they all told of the moment of decision. Whether subtle or overt,
from the story of Sir Arthur to the conspiracy against Julius
Cesar, there was a point in each story when the move of action, or
move to climax was decided. Michael felt as if he was trapped
inside one of those moments and he couldn’t get out of it. Again he
waited for that earthquake or flood or alien invasion. Still, it
did not come.