Bottom Feeder Page 14

  Lamont is silent, taking in this revelation. Finally, as if accepting this as fact, he nods.

  “So what about Maddy?”

  “What about her?”

  “Her daddy is ten pounds of crazy in a five pound sack.” Gotta love those Southern epithets. “He probably paid Lucifer himself to fall from heaven just to spite God. My uncle got involved with him a few years ago and left Georgia once his debt was paid. I’ve heard stories about Cordell Carrington, J. Stories that make some of the most notorious crime families seem like choir boys.”

  Save the fact that I’m sweating like a sinner in church, I think I take the news fairly well. I mean, I knew he was crazy. Right?

  “What I want to say is not about him.” Lamont shifts uncomfortably. “It’s about her. If she was anything like her daddy, she wouldn’t’ve done what she did for me or given up the spotlight as valedictorian so Chris could have his moment. She sure as hell wouldn’t’ve gotten your wallet from that girl without asking for something in return. I know you, J. I see that you like her.” I shoot him a look. “Don’t give me that look. All I am saying is you have to stop living up to your dad’s expectations in women.”

  I shrug. “I should go.” We take the stairs going down this time.

  “Take care, little brother,” Lamont says. “I’ll visit your mama before I leave.”

  As I’m driving away, I cannot shake the feeling that I may never see my best friend again. Or if I do, everything is going to be different.

  I glance in the mirror but Lamont is already gone.

  I think about calling Maddy. I pull to a red light and send a text instead. Lame.

  Me: I’ll be there by 5.

  Maddy: K

  I was hoping she would tell me to drop by earlier.

  I drive to North Beach and find a secluded spot to take off my sneakers and socks. I dig my toes in the warm sand.

  Normally being near the ocean clears my head. I’m sure there is something poetic in here about feeling small compared to its vastness. But I will save that for another day.

  That morning seventy-three days ago plays in my mind like an old movie reel. It wasn’t the first gun fight we encountered. Or the last. Eighty-three days ago our Company lost soldiers, parents lost sons, children lost fathers, and wives lost husbands.

  “We’re taking fire! We’re taking fire! Move your asses!”

  The sky was beginning to lighten. Some were awake, some were sleeping, but those words sprung us into action with the precise quickness of well-trained soldiers ready to defend themselves and each other. Our bodies and minds were set to autopilot. We knew the drill.

  This was not a drill.

  I forced the too-small head gear over my far-from-regulation haircut. I pulled the Kevlar vest over my bare chest and shoved my bare feet into boots.

  I ran into action with the combination of mountain air, gunpowder, and fear prickling against my adrenaline-fueled, hypersensitive skin.

  The scene was chaos. With the echoes on this part of the mountain, we couldn’t calculate where the gunfire came from until it struck the north side of a boulder. Then everything began happening in slow motion. It was like the Furies were released and riding to earth on hellhounds. The sky rained bullets and shell-casings. Hell on earth on the side of a mountain. And I had to piss more than a little bit. It’s weird what you think about with bullets flying. Because you’re trying to think about everything except bullets flying.

  An immeasurable amount of time later, the firing ceased. The only sound was the click-clack of magazines reloading. Somehow this was louder than the shooting.

  First Sergeant made his rounds, giving orders for what to do next.

  “Monroe!” First Sergeant yelled. He gave me the onceover and barked a laugh, “You look like a shitty soup sandwich, Specialist. Get the rest of your gear on and lace up those fucking boots! We’re moving out.”

  “Hooah, First Sergeant!” I responded.

  As soon as I squatted to lace up the boots, I hear the unmistakable sound of a bullet ripping through fabric and flesh. There is no shock on the face of First Sergeant Hauton, only recognition of what happened. He collapsed in a boneless heap on top of me, his blood staining my skin.

  “Sniper!” I screeched.

  I rolled Sergeant Hauton gently off of me and lowered him to the ground. I checked his pulse. Nothing.

  “Medic! I need a fucking medic over here!”

  Specialist Morris ran to my side, his face laced with pure terror. “He’s already dead, Monroe.”

  “I don’t give a fuck, Morris! Do something!”

  At that time a rocket-propelled grenade hit below our camp and we hauled ass to cover, dragging Sergeant Hauton’s lifeless body behind us.

  At four o’clock I pick Mama up from her shop. She wants to say goodbye to Maddy. Their relationship is somewhat disconcerting. I cannot help but wonder why Mama never told me about her.

  I ask when she settles in the passenger seat.

  “Because I didn’t want you circling her like a rooster outside a hen house.” Again with the Southern epithets.

  “She’s not my type,” I snap.

  “Then why are you concerned with why I never told you about her?” she snaps right back.

  Hmph. Good question.

  Cordell is standing at the open trunk of the BMW, his hands inside a suitcase. Mama says a quick hello and rushes inside. I toss my duffle in the backseat and awkwardly avoid watching whatever Cordell is doing. A few minutes later Mama emerges with tears in her eyes. She hugs and kisses me on the cheek, then counts off reminders to drive carefully, call her soon and come back before Christmas.

  When the taillights of her Civic fade away, I ask Cordell if he needs any help. He waves his hand toward the house and mumbles something along the lines of “girl can’t do shit without help”.

  Dixon pulls through the gate just as I step inside the house.

  Awesome.

  This is going to make for a great end to my time in Georgia.

  I am surprised to see the door to Maddy’s bedroom is partially blocked by Larry Duvall’s body. Dixon pauses beside me. He follows my eyes to the figure standing in the doorway. His face settles into—resentment? Confusion? Rage?

  Definitely rage.

  Larry mutters in hushed tones, his hands flailing with angry gestures.

  “Maddy!” Dixon yells. Larry turns, startled.

  “You remember that, sweetness,” Larry coos and winks. Grown men should never coo. Dixon glares, a low growl forming in his throat.

  Larry brushes past me as Dixon hurries into the room, checking Maddy over like she has been in an accident. He looks intently into her eyes, sending a private message. With a small shake of her head, Dixon wraps his arms protectively around her.

  I spot a suitcase by the door. “Want me to grab this?” I ask quietly. She nods without acknowledging my presence.

  Cordell appears from the garage, shifting his eyes with the paranoia of someone who is, in Lamont’s words, ten pounds of crazy in a five pound sack. He takes the suitcase, running his hands around the lining and inside the pockets.

  O-kay. I head back to Maddy’s room to remove myself from Cordell’s paranoia.

  Maddy smiles when I walk in. Something sharp tugs inside my chest. Huh. Weird.

  “DJ, will you watch the door?” She disappears inside the closet. I am too curious not to follow.

  Maddy crawls into a tiny space behind the large mirror.

  “Enjoying the view, asshole?” Dixon mumbles.

  I step further into a closet that appears to be the same size as my bedroom.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Oh!” Maddy pops up, patting her shirt and shorts down to make sure there is no extra skin exposed. “Actually, can you help me? I can’t get this up.”

  I drop down beside her. Maddy’s hands are shaking as she passes me a small screwdriver and points to a floorboard.

  “I can’t seem to stop them from
shaking,” she whispers to herself.

  The piece of wood slides up with ease, revealing a plain brown box beneath the planks. She pulls up two more pieces of wood, removing one box then another. I drop the boards back into place. She maneuvers the small space and crawls out.

  This time, I really do check out the view, picturing her in the contents I found in the top dresser drawer. I fight the urge to pull her back with me. Sighing at these feelings I don’t understand, I take fifteen seconds longer in the closet to calm down.

  “I have to grab something from the library. I’ll be down in a minute,” Maddy says. She stuffs the boxes into an overnight bag and wraps the strap across her body. I guess Cordell will not be inspecting this one.

  Dixon and I are left alone in her room with a tension thicker than molasses pouring in the winter. I start down the stairs when he grabs my arm. I look at his hand like it is seeping with poison.

  Control your temper, Monroe.

  “I hate you,” he says.

  “Don’t sugarcoat anything on my account.”

  “You are what Maddy would describe as ‘dirty dishwater’. Nice and clean and sudsy on the surface, but greasy and pure dirt underneath.”

  “The fuck does that have to do with why your hand is on my arm?”

  Dixon removes his hand slowly, but doesn’t back down. “It has to do with the fact that you are going to hurt her. You will deliver that hurt in a pretty, shit-covered package . . . and she is not even going to hate you for it. Do you know why she’s not going to hate you?”

  “You don’t know anyth—”

  “Because that girl is made of something stronger than the rest of us. You will never break her. Remember that, Monroe, when the asshole side of you decides to make an appearance.”

  I saunter outside to wait for Maddy without a second glance at Dixon. He doesn’t have a clue what the hell he’s talking about. He knows nothing about me.

  “That’s everything, Daddy,” Maddy calls from the front door as Cordell finishes with the last suitcase.

  “Come give your old Daddy some sugar before you go.”

  She siphons a smile and rushes across the pavers. Cordell embraces her with a resolve and knowledge that he will never see her again. Because, in fact, he will never see her again. As the two exchange goodbyes and lies promises of seeing each other soon, something nasty curls deep in my stomach. I know a bad feeling when I get one. Mama was right: other than the obvious, there is definitely something fishy going on with this situation.

  “Call me as soon as you get to Paris.” Maddy presses her head against Dixon’s chest.

  The ache in my gut feels something like jealousy.

  Wait. What?

  Dixon wraps his arms around her, kisses the top of her head. “I land Tuesday morning.” He squeezes her tighter and whispers something, making her giggle. “Love you, mean it,” he declares loudly.

  “Love you, mean it,” Maddy returns.

  The ache is almost unbearable. Maybe I’m just hungry. Or bipolar.

  Cordell harrumphs. Dixon bravely glowers at him, then me, kisses Maddy’s cheek, and hops into his Bronco.

  I adjust the seat and mirrors of the BMW and breathe in the new car scent. It smells like leather and enough heaven to be sinful. I’ve got to get out of Georgia. The epithets are taking over.

  Cordell leans inside the window. “Hold up your end of our agreement, son. I guarantee I’ll make due on my promises.” Dropping his voice, he adds, “As if your life depended on it.”

  I nod once and turn up the radio.

  After a few fake tears from Cordell—Maddy didn’t seem to shed any—we are finally on our way to North Carolina. The four and a half hour drive presents itself as a relaxing welcome to my bizarre week at home. The military may be crazy, but it provides a sense of structure that I need in my life.

  “Jackson,” Maddy says quietly, “Do you mind if I sleep for a little while?”

  Her face looks as if she has not slept in days. “Not at all.” I turn down the music.

  “I don’t mind.” She turns the radio up again and reclines the seat, curling into fetal position.

  When her shirt rises the tiniest bit, revealing a purplish bruise, I have the urge to reach over and comfort her somehow. I seem to be having a lot of urges today.

  Maddy quickly reaches back to smooth her shirt down and mutters a sleepy, “Sorry.”

  I shake myself and these crazy thoughts, focusing my eyes on the road and my mind on the task I’ve been given.

  Maddy

  He grabs the leather strap from the back of his office door and chases me down an endless hallway. My blood-stained feet stick to the cool tiles with each strike of the soles.

  I have to run. He needs the chase, craves the chase. If I don’t run the blows are more vicious.

  I am shoved from behind. My face pounds against the tile.

  “No!” I yell too loud. The echoes send a never-ending “Nonononono” through the house.

  The claws of a monster rip my shirt, my skin. The monster is faceless but I know him. I know the smell of him, the feel of him, and the vile taste of him. My personal boogeyman.

  I watch as blood pools around my head, taking a moment to remember that the tile floor is for me. Hardwood and carpet stain easily. Evidence of blood doesn’t show on tile.

  At Daddy’s insistence to learn how to work with my hands, I helped him lay the flooring. I even picked out the color, Etruscan Gold. Now all I see is my blood racing along endless miles of cold ceramic.

  Larry straddles my back and presses his cheek to mine, the smell of Jim Beam and Polo Double Black clouding any coherent thoughts.

  My chest heaves.

  “Never say no to me,” he whispers.

  If I don’t say no to his advances, it will be like giving permission. He knows this. Uses the knowledge to fuel his out-of-control fire. I will always say no.

  Before the word forms on my tongue he strikes me, closed-fist, on the side of my head. My ears ring.

  Another blow.

  My body becomes numb searching for unconsciousness. Good. This is survival mode.

  Larry stands, rolling a string of profanities off his revolting tongue before kicking me repeatedly.

  I don’t care. I’m already numb. I feel nothing.

  As long as they are safe I can do this. I can take this.

  I pray to endure the pain, the darkness, without screaming. Without fighting back. I learned quickly that fighting back only makes it worse.

  He lifts me by the neck. Drags me to the room beneath his stairs. My room. Only this time, instead of darkness, a stage light shines a blue tinge on Violet, Dixon and Jackson. They are sitting on fold-up chairs, each hand and foot tied to the chair separately. A zip-tie is wrapped around their face and head to secure a greasy rag inside their mouths.

  The monster steps to Jackson and pushes his head back. Punches him. Pulls the zip tighter.

  Bending to Jackson’s eye level, Larry snarls, “You just remember I had the bitch first.”

  He tosses me at Jackson’s feet.

  He pulls a hunting knife from his boot and plants the blade on Violet’s throat.

  Jackson

  Great. An hour into the drive and I discovered I now hate roadtrips. They just might be a method of torture.

  When Maddy finally begins to stir, the sound is bliss. Anything other than the white noise of the interstate is bliss.

  “Larry,” she moans.

  What. The. Fu—

  “Larry!” The second time is a shriek. “Stop! Nonononono! Please stop.”

  I tap her side lightly. Maddy springs out of the seat and grabs my free wrist. Her right hand clutches my throat.

  “You okay?” I ask with deliberate caution. The control grip she has on the pressure point of my wrist hurts like a mofo, the grasp on my throat tightens. Where the hell did she learn this? “Maddy?”

  A sign of recognition crosses her face. “I’m so sorry. I was . . . I .
. .”

  “Dreaming.” She inspects my neck and wrist. “About Larry,” I add.

  Closing her eyes, she sinks back. “Nightmare.”

  “He’s disgusting.”

  “Got that right.”

  “Something is going on between you two. Even Dixon knows.” The correlation isn’t my business but Duvall is one creepy bastard.

  “He is a monster,” she says, eerily calm. “Never link him to me in that way again.”

  “Then what is your connection to the boogeyman?” Maddy’s answer is a look that could freeze boiling water. Oh. “He . . . he’s a . . . he did—”

  Maddy’s voice is barely above a whisper, “You can’t tell anyone.”

  “How long has he been doing this?”

  “You cannot tell anyone, Jackson.”

  “What about Cordell?”

  “My daddy is his own breed of monster.”

  “Tell me.”

  “If I talk to you, you’re in this. There’s no way out. You’re surely not a good enough liar to fake not knowing.”

  She must get her sugarcoating methods from Dixon. “Tell me everything,” I say. “When did it start?”

  “Before Mama died.”

  “Did he make. . . ?”

  “He made me do a lot of things.” Maddy hesitates, searching for the words to finish. “Daddy practically forced me into Larry’s house to keep him company after his wife died. He thought Larry had ‘grown fond of me’ because I helped him.”

  “What happened to his wife?”

  “Let’s just say she suspected what kind of monster he was—is.”

  The amount of law enforcement on Cordell’s payroll must be endless. Now my name is on the same payroll. Awesome.

  “We only met a week ago,” I say, “but I . . . well, there seems to be a lot of weight on your shoulders that shouldn’t be there. I can’t fix it—probably no one can—but I’ll listen. I may be an asshole sometimes, but you can trust me.”

  “This world is Cordell Carrington’s chess board,” Maddy replies without emotion. “The pieces are expendable. There will always be someone out there willing to be bought and molded by him. Like it or not, Jackson, you’re his pawn. He trusts you, but I don’t. I can’t. But since I’m never going to see you again after this week, nor am I returning to Georgia, I can’t find it in me to care if I can trust someone. ”