The Long Road Home [The Final McCassey Brothers Book] (8 page)

"No, man, what happened to her woulda happened whether you were here or not."

"Yeah, but I could've helped her."

Judd knew he needed to tell them the rest. “Do you know what she said to me when I walked in here? She said she couldn't get it open. And when I asked her what she was talking about, she said, ‘the window'. Now why do you think she was trying to get the window open? It sure as hell wasn't because of the smell in here; her nose was so stuffy from crying she couldn't have smelled anything."

Suddenly intensely serious, Blackie took one last drag on his cigarette and dropped it into the longneck beer bottle on the counter. “You think she was gonna jump?"

"Yes, Blackie,” Judd said more harshly than he meant to, “I do. And not jump to escape and run away so she could handle things on her own, like Dusty did ... jump because she's sick and tired of being sick and tired, and was ready to end her life.

"I don't think the three of us can handle this on our own anymore. We don't have any experience with helping someone through drug withdrawal. There are probably dozens of signs we should've been watching for that would've told us this was about to happen."

"What kind of signs?” Blackie asked. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?"

"I'm talking about Georgia getting hurt, goddammit! If she
had
been trying to kill herself, Blackie, and hadn't had so much trouble unlocking the window, she'd be dead right now! We can't do this anymore; we need help from someone who knows what the hell they're doing."

"Let's call Wade Pickett,” Rebel suggested, who, up until that point, had been silent. “He'll be able to help her."

Shocked by his brother's suggestion, Judd turned to Rebel, knowing full well that surprise was written all over his face. The same surprise, he was sure, that was plastered across Blackie's, as well. “Reb—"

Rebel turned to Judd then, a fire in his eyes that Judd hadn't seen in a long time. Five years, to be exact. When Gypsy needed help and Rebel was sure he was the only one who could give it to her. “What? If you don't think we can help Georgia ourselves, then we damn well better find someone who can. You don't have to be Wade's best friend. Hell, you don't even have to like the man. You, either,” Rebel turned and shouted at Blackie, “but he can help her, I guarantee it."

Blackie was shaking his head. “No, Rebel, no way. Wade's almost as old as you."

Judd actually laughed as Rebel threw his hands in the air out of frustration. “What does his age have to do with anything? For Christ's sake, Blackie, we're only trying to help Georgia, not marry her off. Who the hell cares how old Wade is?"

"I do. It ain't right."

"He's thirty, Blackie. There are only eleven years separating him and Georgia. Hell, there's twelve years between you and Angel. What's not right about that?"

Staring Rebel down, Blackie remained quiet. Suddenly, Judd was very glad not to be involved in that particular part of the conversation.

"I've got a feeling Wade's age doesn't have a damn thing to do with how you're feeling right now. Go ahead, Blackie,” Rebel invited him, “why don't you just come out and say it; say what's really bothering you."

Blackie threw his hands in the air and took a step forward. “Fine! You want me to say it, I will! Wade Pickett's a goddamn junkie, too, Rebel. I don't see how he's gonna help Georgia."

"Correction,” Rebel said, “Wade
was
a junkie. He's been clean since before I met Gypsy, which was almost six years ago. He's been doing drug counseling as part of his parole, Blackie. He may be the only one at this point who
can
help Georgia. We have to try."

Blackie shook his head again. “I can't let it happen, Reb."

"Why the hell not?"

"Look,” Blackie said in an eerily calm voice that made the hairs on the back of Judd's neck stand up. “I don't give a shit if our mom and his mom were sisters. I know Wade Pickett; known him all his damn, worthless life. I know everything he's done and what he's capable of, and I ain't lettin’ him anywhere near Georgia."

Rebel took a step in Blackie's direction, closing more of the distance between them. Judd held his breath, praying he wasn't going to have to break up a fight.

"Well you might want to rethink that,” Rebel suggested, “because if that girl in there,” he pointed toward the bathroom, “needs something that we can't give her, and she winds up dead because your goddamn stubborn ass refused to let someone help her, then you'll be just as guilty of killing her as if you'd put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger."

Realizing he hadn't taken a breath in nearly thirty seconds, Judd sucked in a gulp of fresh air and turned to Blackie, waiting for his response to Rebel's harsh words.

"Why the hell do you trust him so damn much, Rebel?"

"Why the hell don't you trust him at all, Blackie? Wade hasn't been in trouble in years. He cleaned himself up, served his time, and doesn't bother anyone anymore. Sometimes people make stupid mistakes, you know? Sometimes they screw up so bad that others completely write them off. And sometimes, those people surprise others by doing their damnedest to turn their lives around. Guys like that deserve a second chance, don't you think?"

Score one for Rebel.

If his little speech hadn't convinced Blackie to let their cousin Wade help Georgia, than nothing would.

Judd had never really thought about it, but Blackie and Wade had a lot more in common than he had realized. They'd both spent time in prison, although for different reasons. And, over the years, they'd both been rehabilitated ... to a point.

Blackie wasn't quite as law-abiding as Wade was now, but out of the two of them, if Judd had to pick which one was more likely to land himself back in prison, it would have to be Wade. Blackie loved his wife and kids enough to be extra careful when he couldn't be good. But Wade, well, he was and always had been a loner. Most of the time, he'd done his own thing, more often than not landing himself in trouble. He hadn't had anyone depending on him while he was growing up the way Blackie'd had Judd and Rebel, so Wade could afford to screw up and not give a damn about what happened to himself.

Judd hadn't seen Wade in years, even though Rebel apparently had. And as far as he knew, Wade was still pretty much a loner. He wasn't married, didn't have any kids, and no longer hung out with the mutual friends he'd shared with his three McCassey cousins.

Erasing the remaining distance between them, Blackie stepped forward, leaned in, and pointed a finger in Rebel's face. “Fine, Reb I get your damn point. You win. Wade and I ain't much different, so if I'm good enough to be around Georgia, than so is he.

"I'll let him help her, but I hope to hell this don't blow up in our faces. Because if it does, we're gonna have a hell of a mess to clean up."

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Wade Pickett's Monday mornings were usually all the same—two or three hours of sleep the night before, a few Winston's to wake up the parts of his body that strong, black coffee couldn't reach quick enough, and something sugary sweet to jump start what little energy he could muster.

But this Monday was different.

Before the sun was even up, he'd received a phone call from his cousin, Rebel McCassey. They'd had a shocking conversation that Wade was still trying very hard to believe.

"Can you meet my brothers and me at the garage around seven?"

Wade's first instinct was to say no.

In the past, anything that had to do with a McCassey meant trouble, something Wade couldn't afford to be anywhere near these days. One brush with the law while he was still on parole, and the judge would forget about sentencing him to anymore prison time; he or she would just have Wade buried under the nearest maximum security correctional facility and save the tax payers time and money.

"I don't know, Reb. What's this all about?"

"I'd rather not get into it on the phone. What do you say, man? Can you be here in an hour?"

With the exception of being busted on a few misdemeanors as a teenager, Rebel was one—quite possibly the
only
—McCassey who'd never really tangled with the law, and had always been well respected by both his family and friends. In fact, not only were Rebel's leadership skills the cause of him being somewhat of a local legend, it was well known that he didn't start trouble, he finished it.

What could the brothers possibly need?

Blackie doesn't call Rebel the Pied Piper for nothing; everyone knows that Reb's the go-to guy if you're in trouble and need help.

So why me? What can I do for the brothers that Rebel can't?

Although he was nearly dying of curiosity, Wade was more than a little skeptical, afraid there'd be no escaping once he walked into that garage. He wasn't necessarily convinced that he was about to be dragged into trouble, but he couldn't afford to take that chance.

"I'm sorry, Reb,” Wade said with as much sincerity as he could muster, still being half asleep and all. “I don't think it'd be a good idea."

The sigh on the other end of the line was something Wade hadn't expected. He'd been prepared for Rebel to hang up, cuss him out, even lecture him on the importance of family ... but he hadn't expected the man to simply sigh.

"Look, Wade,” Rebel said in a voice sounding laced with emotional pain, “we got a situation over here that Blackie, Judd, and I can't handle. We were hoping you could lead us in the right direction."

Wade stayed quiet and listened carefully as Rebel explained about their half-sister, Georgia. “She wants to get clean,” he assured Wade, “but she sort of hit rock bottom this morning, and we don't know what else to do. Can you help her?"

Maybe what made Wade want to help was the thought that a young girl who was forced into prostitution and heroin addiction was now trying so desperately to clean herself up.

Maybe it was the fact that her brother, Rebel, one of the toughest men Wade knew, had done nothing to hide his emotion as he told Georgia's story.

Or maybe it was the realization that he wouldn't be alive today if several people hadn't gone out of their way to help him.

Whatever the reason, Wade knew he had to do something for Georgia McCassey.

And he knew exactly what it was.

"I'll be there,” he told Rebel, placing the phone back on the receiver so fast that he missed his cousin's quiet, ‘thank you'.

"Where the hell is he, Rebel?"

Blackie had been impatiently pacing the concrete floor of the garage since the instant Rebel had gotten off the phone with Wade.

His feelings were torn between wanting to help his sister overcome her addiction, and wanting to keep her safe. Unfortunately, he'd done all he could, and no longer knew what else he could do to help her. Now, all that was left was keeping her safe, something he didn't feel would be possible with Wade hanging around her.

Although Blackie had never done drugs and Wade wasn't a member of an outlaw biker gang, their pasts were a little too similar for Blackie's liking.

He was the first one to admit that he came by his nickname ‘The Devil’ honestly. Back in his heyday, he wasn't fit to be around decent people. Hell, since he was being honest with himself, he had to admit that he still had days where he craved the excitement his old life had always succeeded in providing.

But not once had Blackie ever acted on those cravings.

The pull of his wife and family—knowing how much they needed him—had kept him grounded ... kept him in line.

Of course, he still screwed up now and then. Sometimes he drank too much, and was always fighting with his brothers and cousins, even though most of the time it was all in the name of fun. And, even though he was on parole, he still carried and fired guns up at Ten Acres, his family's private property.

But Blackie was always extra careful when he couldn't behave himself, and did his best never to step so far outside the law that he was risking going back to prison.

If Wade wasn't as rehabilitated as Rebel thought, the three of them could be signing Georgia's death warrant by allowing him near her. However, if they didn't find someone to help their sister soon, there was no doubt in Blackie's mind that her addiction would kill her.

He'd known that the entire time he was arguing with Rebel about calling Wade, and he knew it now, too. As usual, Rebel had been right. Wade was probably the only one who could help Georgia. They had to take a chance on him, because Blackie just couldn't bring himself to think about the alternative.

"Take it easy, Blackie!” Rebel yelled at him from the soda machine outside. “I told him to be here at seven; he's still got fifteen minutes."

Before Blackie had a chance to yell a reply, Rebel came back inside and threw a can of soda at him as he walked past. “Drink that and settle down."

Inspecting the can, Blackie noticed that the drink wasn't his usual. “Hey, Reb, this ain't got no caffeine in it!"

"You're worked up enough already,” Rebel warned in a cold, lethal voice that Blackie had only heard him use a few times before. “Shut up and drink it. And when Wade gets here, you let me do the talking. Open that big, smartass mouth of yours once, big brother—just once—and we could lose the only shot we have to help Georgia without letting the whole damn world know about her problems. She's embarrassed enough by the fact that the three of us know what happened to her, and what she's going through. I don't want to humiliate her further by having to toss her in rehab, where she'll be forced to have to open up to strangers."

The two men held each other's gaze until Rebel turned away, walked into the office, and slammed the door—which as of the day before had a brand new glass window for the second time in two months.

Blackie watched his youngest brother for a good minute, fighting the urge to yell back, knowing any comment that came out of his mouth would've led to the two of them rolling around the concrete floor throwing half-hearted punches at each other.

"I see the two of you haven't changed much."

Upon hearing the unfamiliar voice behind him, Blackie turned around, hardly recognizing the man it belonged to.