Going to the Bad (18 page)

“How's your progress?” Kincaid said. “Are you still on track for tomorrow?”

“If I don't get any more interruptions.” Judging from Brandon's still unblemished good looks, he was not an addict like his mother. How long would that last now that he had his new job as a meth cooker?

Sally tried to make up for her son's hostile tone with a surplus
of deference. “Brandon will have it all ready, we promise. You can come pick it up and stay to eat with us. I'm making turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes and cran—”

“Your drug dealer doesn't want to stay for Christmas dinner, Mom.”

Kincaid's voice dropped. It had that quality men's voices get just before a bar fight breaks out. “I'm not a drug dealer. I only do this because I have to.”

“What exactly are you, then?” Brandon escalated the tension. “You sell illegal drugs. Isn't that the definition of a drug dealer?”

I glanced at Rod. In the dim light coming through the slits, our eyes met. The prospect of violence breaking out above us was growing more likely and we each knew it.

But fortunately Kincaid backed down. Maybe his business sense told him not to get in a fistfight with his meth cooker. “There's no need for either of us to get sore. We're both trying to make a living, and neither of us likes how we're having to do it.”

I heard a noise.

Kincaid heard it too. “What was that? It sounded like it came from under the house.”

“Probably just an animal. The house is infested.” Sally started toward the door. “But don't worry, I've got the gun in the car.”

“Mom, that's not a good idea.”

My hands shot to my face. I managed to deflect the falling dirt and dust as Sally quickly walked out.

Rod rolled over on his stomach and began crawling toward where the noise had come from.

Sally had only been gone a few seconds before Brandon said, “How much meth did you give her?”

“Too much for her to be handling a loaded gun. I didn't even feel safe with her driving down here from the mobile homes.”

Both men ran out after her. I took advantage of their absence to turn on the flashlight. Thing appeared near the sunken stove base. Rod was only a few feet away, but each time he moved, Thing
moved too. I began crawling with the intention of cutting the dog off from the other side, but I heard voices and had to shut off the light.

“I won't use it unless I have to.” Sally must have been outside standing by the generator because I had a harder time hearing her. “But I feel better having the gun with me. I think a coyote may have killed my dog.”

Brandon was louder. “Will you both please go away and let me work.”

“Sure we will,” Kincaid said. “Just let me take a look around your lab and make sure things are going as well as you say.”

“I've taken chemistry classes at school. I'm premed, remember? Compared to some junkie cooking on a hot plate, I'm Einstein at this.”

“Then you won't mind me looking around.” Kincaid stepped back into the house and crossed the kitchen to the lab.

After a few moments of silence, Brandon whispered, “Why did you bring him here? Did you leave Grandma alone?”

“Don't worry, I gave her cough syrup to sleep.” Brandon must not have reacted well. “Spare me the lecture, and Mr. Kincaid has every right to check up on you. You're using all his Sudafed and this is your first time. If you screw it up, he's in big trouble.”

“Mom, you know I hate this.”

“Yes, but we're counting on you, Grandma and me. Her ten thousand isn't coming in every month like before. What will we do for money?”

Brandon had said that Mida's pension had gone bust, but ten thousand a month sounded like a lot more than a pension.

Sally continued, “I know you don't like Mr. Kincaid, but we need every penny we can get right now.”

I heard a noise from a few feet away.

Sally heard it too. “What was that?”

“Mom, put the gun down.”

I turned on the flashlight long enough to see that Rod had
grabbed Thing. Rod lay flat on his back near the stove holding the dog to him with both hands. Unfortunately, Thing was growling.

Sally pounded on the planks above me as she walked toward the stove. “It's a coyote. I'm going to shoot straight down.”

“Don't be silly, Mom. You're high and you're not thinking right. How could a coyote get under the house?”

Thing continued to growl. I didn't know what to do. Rod needed to let go of the dog and get as far away from it as possible. Why hadn't he already done that?

“I can hear it taunting me.” She stopped directly above Rod. “See how it likes this.”

“No, Mom!”

I had one of those moments of clarity that people talk about. Rod would never let go of the dog. He wasn't made that way. He'd never abandon something helpless or dependent on him to save himself. He'd go down with the ship or, in this case, get shot by a whacked-out drug addict who thought he was a coyote.

And all because he'd followed me out here trying to help.

I kicked up with my knee, hit the plank above me, and rolled.

“It's moving.” Sally pulled the trigger. A plank splintered as a shot tore through the decaying wood floor. The bullet hit the dirt where I'd been seconds earlier and ricocheted into the darkness.

“What the hell?” Kincaid tore through the plastic sheeting. “Why are you shooting?”

All three began talking over each other. Brandon wanted them both to leave. Sally wanted Brandon to give her back the rifle. I think Kincaid just wanted to feel as though he was in control. Finally, Sally handed the car keys over to Kincaid so he could drive them back to the mobile homes.

Brandon stood alone at the kitchen door watching their lights disappear. After a few moments he sat down on the floor with his back against the wall.

I thought he might be listening for more sounds from under the
house. I was terrified to even breathe. Thank goodness Thing had gone quiet after the rifle had shot through the floor.

Then all at once I heard it. Soft crying. The sounds were muffled as though Brandon was ashamed of this moment of weakness. Just as I had with Mida, I felt as though I was intruding on something deeply private. Brandon was breaking under the weight of his family.

He tried to collect himself. He stood and crossed the kitchen, careful to avoid the new hole in the center. I heard the sheeting move and then he entered the lab. After a minute or two the music resumed.

We waited a few minutes before crawling out the hole by the old stove. Rod held Thing as we ran around the side of the house and up the ridge. I clawed at weeds and roots to speed my climb.

At the top I turned on the Maglite. “Did you get my text?”

“Yes. I came immediately to try and stop you, but all I found was your gear bag by this tree. Something moved inside, so I made the mistake of opening it.” Rod lifted Thing in his arms. “This little dog jumped out and I chased it down the hill and around the house.”

I turned on my camera and checked the settings. “But how did you know where to drive on the property? This road is almost impossible to find in the dark.”

When he didn't answer, I looked up from the camera.

“I used your phone's GPS signal,” he admitted. “As senior producer I have access to the station's cell phone accounts.”

I returned to prepping my equipment. “That's a little creepy, but I'm glad you came.” Rod didn't say anything, so I continued, “You call the police. I'm going to get the camera in position so I can shoot their arrival.”

I was so giddy with the thought of filming an actual police raid that it took me a few moments to notice Rod wasn't moving. “Don't you have your phone with you?”

“I have it.” Rod set Thing down inside my gear bag and zipped
it up. “But we're not calling the police. We're getting out of here.”

“I feel bad for Brandon too, but they're running a meth lab down there.” I fished my own phone out of my pocket. “Of course we're calling the police.”

“You don't understand.” He grabbed the phone out of my hand before I could dial. “We can't turn them in.”

I stared at him in disbelief, partly for what he was saying and partly for the violence with which he'd taken the phone. “Why not?”

“We just can't.” The flashlight highlighted his cheeks as he took hard breaths. “We shouldn't talk about this here. Come back to the house.”

I continued to stare.

All at once he looked self-consciously down at the phone. “I'm sorry. I know this must sound crazy to you.” He handed it back to me. “But please, trust me.”

Christmas Eve, 9:38 p.m.

W
hen the man you love asks you to give up exclusive
video of a meth-lab bust, well, I'm sure we can all agree that is a bitter pill to swallow. Rod's refusal to involve the police was also unsettling for moral and ethical reasons, but I decided to trust him. It was Rod after all.

He'd parked his Prius next to my van, back far enough from the ridge so it wasn't visible from the farmhouse. We each got in our own vehicle and left. He got ahead of me at the light just before the freeway entrance.

While I waited for it to turn green again, I let Thing out of my gear bag. It wandered into the van's back cargo section and out of sight. I spotted one of Sally King's lost-dog flyers at the gas station next to the freeway. I made a quick detour to where the flyer was taped on a pole by the free air. The dog really did look exactly like the chocolate Lab we'd had on the show. It even had the same white spot over its eye.

I got on the freeway and drove back to Bakersfield. It would've been easy to work myself into an emotional state wondering why Rod had refused to call the police. Instead, I tried to focus on Bud and what I'd learned.

It seemed likely that Sally, Carter King's niece, had traded the gold brooch to Kincaid for drugs. Kincaid had turned around and pawned it at the store near his own, where Bud had later bought it. So where was the more valuable diamond-star brooch and how had Sally obtained the gold one?

Had her uncle held on to it all these years? If Carter had given the gold brooch to Sally, I doubted he'd planned for her to buy
drugs. More likely, it had been intended to finance Mida's care after the termination of her pension.

That termination must have triggered all the family's financial problems. Ten thousand dollars a month was an enormous sum. Not many people still actively working made $120,000 a year.

I wondered if there was a way to look at Mida's bank account. It would be illegal, and certainly nothing that Callum or any good journalist would be a part of, but if the money had been coming from Carter, I might be able to trace him that way.

I reached Rod's house and parked the van next to his Prius in the driveway. Thing romped in the back underneath the tarp I use to cover equipment and emergency supplies from view. I fished the little guy out and tucked it back into the gear bag. It actually was a pretty decent pet carrier.

Rod opened the front door shortly after I rang the bell. “You could have come right in. This is your house too.” He took a key off the table in the entryway and gave it to me.

He barely shut the door before I said, “Please explain why we just walked away from a meth house.”

He took a breath and steeled himself. “No, I can't explain. You have to trust me.”

“What does that mean? We pretend it never happened?”

“It means that we get some sleep. In the morning we go to the hospital and do everything we can for Bud. If he doesn't recover, we mourn him.” He looked me in the eye for the first time. “It means you forget about the Kings and the Warners and whatever ancient history boomeranged back around to destroy Bud.”

“You expect me to forget that someone shot my uncle? If he dies, it'll be murder.” I walked toward Rod, but that only started his moving into the kitchen. I followed. “I owe Bud better than that. He would want justice.”

“No, he wouldn't.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

Rod stopped at the tile counter and turned around. “Because he told me.”

“How is that even possible? Bud was in surgery all day. He never . . .”

I got it and stopped cold. The ramifications—the lies Rod had told to both me and the police—were enormous. “You said he was unconscious when you found him this morning.”

Rod didn't say anything. His silence served as a passive confession.

I took a moment to try to steady myself. I felt like someone who'd just got off a boat and couldn't get her bearings. “I thought Handsome was being a jerk for questioning you, but he was right. You were lying. Bud was awake when you found him.”

“Let it go, Lilly. Stop turning over these rocks. It's going to change things in ways you won't like.”

“Why do you think I haven't gone to the police? The odds are pretty good that Bud did something bad—maybe now, maybe a long time ago.” I shook my head. “Whatever it is, I love Bud, and nothing is going to change that.”

Rod reached out and put his arms around me. For a moment I thought everything was going to be okay.

But instead of telling me the truth he said, “That certainty is exactly what I'm trying to preserve for you.”

I had a terrible thought. “Are you keeping this secret because Bud asked you to, or because you've decided it's what's best for me?”

“Both.”

I jerked away. “You don't get to make those kinds of decisions.”

I picked up my gear bag with Thing and walked out. I got in my van and didn't even think about turning around. I've never been that angry at someone I loved before. My hands shook so badly that I dropped the car keys trying to put them in the starter.

Who was Rod to decide what I should and shouldn't know?
Did he really think I was this fragile? True, I had a history of poor judgment and broken relationships after my father's death, but that was a long time ago. The gall, the arrogance, of his making that kind of decision enraged me.