The Good House Part 21

"Glenn, you've got company!" Angela heard Liza call as she knocked on the door closest to the stairs. As Angela's head rose to the second floor, she sawSpider-Man posters decorating the closed door. The bone-colored carpeting upstairs was smudged with mud, from the stairs to the door that belonged to Glenn, and Liza noticed it the same time she did. "Art, look at this! Which one of you tracked all this c.r.a.p into the house?"

"Aw, geez, I didn't see that. Sorry, munchkin. I'll clean that up."

Angela inched closer, sniffing the air. It was closer now, upon her. When its full strength a.s.sailed her, she couldn't mistake the source because it was right in front of her nose: The stench was wafting from Art. He couldn't smell any worse if he'd spent his afternoon rolling in cows.h.i.t and decomposing meat. Angela felt her throat throb as she leaned closer to Art and smelled his shoulder.Ugh . What in the world would make anyone smell like that? The smell wasn't...

"We're coming in, honey," Liza said, opening the door.

Too late, Angela realized that she did not want to be here. She should have waited outside. She should have stayed at the pier. She should have stayed at Sean Leahy's gate. Her tingling arms had tried to warn her all along that this was not somewhere she would want to be. But shewas here, and the motions of the three people around her took on a surreal quality. As the three of them went into Glenn's room, Angela stood in the doorway feeling as if she were watching their actions through a smoky gla.s.s.

The bed had been stripped down to the plastic-covered mattress. A four-foot form was wrapped tightly in sheets atop the mattress, p.r.o.ne. Precisely in the center, vertical. Not moving. That might be Glenn, but he was not taking a nap.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing? You can't breathe like that! That isnot funny, Glenn Brunell!" Liza shouted, both furious and alarmed. She clawed at the sheets wrapped around the figure's head, or where the head should have been. After a few skillful yanks, a pale foot flopped into view, falling to rest on the mattress, limp. Angela's mouth fell open. For a moment, she forgot even the smell.

Liza shrieked, panicked. "Help me unwrap him!"

Angela, still feeling as if she were witnessing someone else's bad dream, couldn't make herself move. But Art joined Liza, picking wildly at the sheets' folds, trying to free Glenn. Angela heard Rob say something into his radio, his words in machine-gun bursts, but she couldn't understand him. He was speaking in codes, she realized. He also pulled out his gun, a black Glock. Angela knew a Glock when she saw one.

"Art, go stand by the window.Get away from the bed," Rob said.

Art either didn't hear Rob's instructions or pretended not to, because he gathered the bundled lump from the bed into his arms. "No, no, Liza, letme do it," Art said, and while Liza stared in horror, Art tossed the heavy bundle onto the bed, until Glenn nearly fell from the mattress to the floor. As the sheets loosened, Angela saw a glimpse of Glenn's red hair. Her blood turned to lead.

"Art,stop it!" Liza wailed. She'd grabbed Art's arm, clinging to him.

Art grabbed the bundle again, his knuckles ivory-white. With a grunt, he pulled Glenn back toward him, then heaved him away, trying to unfurl the sheets. This time, a flap of fabric fell away from the head, and Angela saw Glenn's mud-stained face. The tip of Glenn's tongue lolled from his mouth, fat and purple. The boy's clouded eyes were wide open. His neck hung loosely as Art lifted the bundle into his arms with another grunt. The dead boy's face staring squarely at Angela was upside down, dangling over Art's arm.

"He's up now," Art said, beaming with unabashed good nature. "What did you want to ask him about, Rob? If you've got a question, just come out with it. Liza has dinner waiting, and my appet.i.te's come back, so I'm ready to eat. Glenn and I just got back from fishing."

Angela's eardrum popped in pain when Liza began to scream.

Seventeen.

OAKLAND.

WEDNESDAY NIGHT.

TARIQ WAS AWAKENEDfrom the most wonderful dream by incessant barking.

The dream had been this: He'd been fishing, having some quality time with his son. He wasn't himself in the dream, nor had the boy been his real son. But it had felt good nonetheless, watching the boy and his little friend cast out their lines, pointing out when their bait was too loose on their hooks, urging them not to pull their lines away too quickly from the mouths of the hungry fish.

In the dream's most memorable instant, he had surprised his son by plunging his head into the muddy water at the sh.o.r.eline. He'd seen air bubbles race to the water's surface as the boy tried to yell.Didn't he know better? Had no one taught him to HOLD HIS BREATH under the water? It had been a sweet struggle. A valiant struggle, for such a small person. Writhing, kicking, clawing. Tariq had wondered for an instant if he shouldn't release the boy, let him chalk it up to experience. Let him get a good laugh over it, because it was so silly, really, for someone so weak to struggle against someone so strong. Once he truly grasped that, the boy might have laughed until he choked.

But Tariq had been the one doing the choking in the dream, because he'd understood that the purest pleasure in the experience would be when the struggle stopped, a parental symmetry of sorts. What had the comedian said?I brought you into this world, and I can take you out.

Besides, he had to kill the boy.Had to, because the boy's death had been decided. The boy's mother had to be punished, because That b.i.t.c.h had been using her, communicating through her. In the dream, Tariq had explained this to the boy beforehand-it was best to deal with people straight, even the littlest people, and even the people who lived in dreams. He'd said,I have to kill you now, Glenn. Yes, he remembered-the boy in the dream was named Glenn. And the best part? When he'd said it, the boy had only grinned at him, ready to take his new circ.u.mstance like a man.

When Tariq woke up, he was sad to be cast out of his dream. He was aroused, a delicious feeling of physical longing he would have loved to explore, but he couldn't tend to his erection at the moment because of the barking. That yappy, annoying barking was outside his front door, bringing attention with it. Tariq didn't want any attention brought to his door.

The house was dark, the light dying through his windows. He must have slept through the day, he realized. He sat up and blinked, staring with surprise at the unholy mess before him. He seemed to recall a time not too long ago-perhaps it had only beenyesterday -when this had been a very nice place to live. There had been some order to it, some organization. Furniture standing upright, magazines and mail stacked, large-screen television uncracked, unbothered.

The next time he needed to beat someone's a.s.s, he decided, he'd do it with more composure. Why destroy an expensive television set by heaving someone into it? Was it more important to make a point by throwing a coffee table or having a bit of order in the room? He'd like to be able to walk in the room without stumbling over broken things. He'd enjoyed having a tidy living s.p.a.ce. It gave him peace of mind. He should have asked that sanctimonious p.r.i.c.k DuShaun to step outside with him, the way western gunslingers and courteous bar-brawlers did.

Losing his temper had been childish. If he'd been mad because DuShaun walked away from the fight instead of finishing it like a man, he should have gone after him. He should have run him down in his Land Cruiser, grinding him against the wall. s.h.i.t, he had a baseball bat in his closet-why hadn't he run after DuShaun and knocked the back of his head into the cheap seats? What point had been served by going from room to room, breaking things as he went?

Tariq felt silly for that. He had to learn to control his temper. He had yet to master the concept of taking a deep breath and counting to ten. Wasn't that what Angie had always said?

More barking, this time with whining and frantic scratching at his door.

"I'm coming!" Tariq shouted, and the barking stopped.

Tariq turned on his porch light and opened the door. The dog had been eager to get inside before, but he cowered when he saw Tariq, folding his tail beneath him, trying to disappear into the cement stoop. p.u.s.s.y furball.

"Well, it's about time, runt," Tariq said.

A f.u.c.king black poodle. Not even a standard poodle, which would have been a n.o.ble animal, a hunter's companion. Instead, this was one of the miniatures. A f.u.c.king toy poodle with flowing, hairy ears, more like a doll than an animal. Tariq leaned over to grab the dog's collar so he could see the name tag, and he felt the dog's limbs trembling.

ONYX, the tag said. At least it was the right dog. That part was the way it should be.

But what about the rest? Tariq stepped outside. He saw his Land Cruiser parked in the driveway, where it had been since he'd driven it home from Marcus Bookstore last night. That was not what he had expected, not at all. Motherf.u.c.k .

But wait....

A half-block down the street, perfectly illuminated by the wash of orange light from the streetlamp, he saw the olive-green paint of his VW van, parked and waiting. The chrome looked shinier than it had in a long time. Tariq felt his pocket, pulling out a single key dangling from a VW key-ring. He grinned. He liked it when things went smoothly. When things fell into place.

The dog, feeling more courageous, began sniffing Tariq's shoes, ready to retreat at the slightest incentive.

"So? Like your new daddy?" Tariq said.

After more careful sniffing, the dog's tail wagged. He barked, jumping up, his nails scratching Tariq's calves. The scratching annoyed Tariq, but he kept his head. He and the dog had to get along, at least for a while. He and the dog had work to do.

Tariq had thrown the entire contents of his refrigerator onto the floor during his tantrum last night, so he took the dog into the kitchen to let him start lapping away at the linoleum. That would fill him up. He moved the bucket of stale KFC before the dog could get to it, though. Chicken bones weren't good for dogs. He couldn't let Onyx choke, not before he was returned to his rightful owner.

That was how it worked. Thebaka took away, and thebaka gave back.

"Bon appet.i.t,"Tariq said. "Enjoy the cuisine. I've got packing to do."

He wouldn't need much, but there were a few things he wanted to take with him now that his van was here, his rebirth complete. He needed fresh clothes, his electric razor, his dumbbell set. His baseball bat, a few sharp knives from the kitchen drawers, some rope from the garage.

The necessities.

And he didn't have much time. As much as Tariq hated to be rushed, he was in a hurry. It all went back to that sniveling, loudmouthed mama's boy, DuShaun. There were a hundred different ways Tariq might have shut him up for good last night, but he had not. Hehad not, for reasons that would forever mystify him. And because of that one oversight, he had to leave now-because DuShaun was at Oakland International picking up Harry this very instant, waiting outside the security gate. Granted, it was hard to believe Harry would make a special trip from Atlanta over a little old-fashioned a.s.s whupping. a.s.s whupping wasn't new to Harry; their father had delved out plenty to them and their sisters, worse than what DuShaun had gotten. But irrational or not, his brother was arriving on a United flight this very minute. DuShaun was planning to bring Harry over to his house, and then the two of them were going to surprise him here, or so they thought. Even Reese might show up. DuShaun had called him, too.

Was that some s.h.i.t?

Well, they would have to have their little Twelve Step party without him. As tempting as it might be to hang around and hear what they had to say, there was a considerable principle in the matter: You don't kill people just because they are annoying you. That was senseless, bad form. Whenever possible, you only kill the people you are supposed to kill. The people whoneed killing.

Take his lovely dream about fishing. Tariq appreciated the dream's symbolism: He and the boy had beenfishing . Fishing, that is, for answers. Fishing for solutions. For lessons.

He must teach That b.i.t.c.h a lesson. Her gall was staggering, even now. She hadn't learned her lessons yet, after all this time. Had she thought for a moment that just because her flesh had died, her lessons were over? Had she really expected to hide her remaining line? Her insipid spirit had dogged him for more than two years, scrabbling to confuse him, to undo his future. Tariq knew she was watching still, and that knowledge kept him moored to his undertaking. On task, as he used to say.

Neither DuShaun nor Harry and Reese were a part of his undertaking. And that meddling queer Brother Paul wasn't either, as much as Tariq would like to pay him a special visit.So close, Brother Paul, so close. You would have died in the process because you underestimated what you were playing with, but That b.i.t.c.h was trying to work through you. She's a strong one, That b.i.t.c.h.

Maybe he'd see about Brother Paul another time, another night. Let her watch that, too. Let her see more innocents suffer.

"Keep watching,manbo . Where are your friends Shang and Oy now, you pompous b.i.t.c.h? What good is your stolen word now?" Tariq said. He flung clothes into his leather duffel bag so he and Onyx could make their exit without interference or lectures.

Marie Toussaint would have plenty to watch now.

The Tariq Hill Showwas about to hit the road.

Eighteen.

SACAJAWEA.

WEDNESDAY NIGHT.

THERE WAS NO OFFICIAL MEETINGscheduled in the Sacajawea Town Council chambers at the rear of the courthouse, but by eight o'clock the room was thronging with more than a hundred and fifty people, their faces washed of pigment by the fluorescent lights overhead. The seats had filled long ago, but more people would have come if there had been more notice. A deputy posted at the door made certain no one under eighteen got inside, not even with a parent. "Grown people's business," the deputy told the teenagers, who were circling like hawks. It was an angry-looking crowd, Angela noticed. Faces wore skeptical scowls, and many of the people gathered were twitching, ready for a confrontation.

Angela blinked, and tears escaped from both eyes. She turned to look for Myles. She'd staked out a spot at the rear center pillar not far from the door, hoping he would arrive in time. As much as she'd hated to tip off anyone at theLower Columbia News, Myles belonged here. But where was he? She'd called him forty-five minutes ago.

Rob and Melanie made their way to the front of the room, and people parted to let them pa.s.s. They were holding hands, not looking at anyone as they walked. Rob was wearing his uniform, but his hat was in his hand. He and Melanie walked until they stood between the American flag and the painted Sacajawea emblem on the wall; a collage of an eagle, a Lewis and Clark trail map, and the long-haired profile of the city's namesake, Sacajawea. The meeting was about to start.

Angela looked for Myles again. This time, she saw an electric blue shirtsleeve winding its way into the doorway, a shade borrowed from the streets of Rome, and she knew it was him. No other man in Sacajawea owned a dress shirt that color. Myles was trying to ease one shoulder past the crowd in the doorway, a thin reporter's notebook clutched between his fingers.

The deputy tapped Myles's shoulder. "Sorry, sir. No press."

"Colin, give me a break. I didn't bring a photographer. I live here, too."

The deputy hesitated, then waved him in despite grumbles around him. Myles hurried to Angela's side. He leaned over, kissing her cheek. "You all right?" he whispered.

She nodded. "Yes," she said. The more precise answer was a long story-but the gist of it was yes, she was as well as she could be, given what she'd seen today. All she'd noticed in the past hour was a headache and occasional spasms in her legs, when she thought they would buckle beneath her. But even those were subsiding. She was doing better than she'd thought she would.

On the small elevated stage in front, a tech handed Rob a microphone attached to a small amplifier, and Rob rested his hat on the podium where Art usually lorded over town council meetings. When Rob raised the microphone to his mouth, the amplifier squealed loudly, making a few people near the front cry out in surprise. Rob put the microphone down. "Listen, uh...I'm not gonna use that thing. Can everybody hear me all right?"

The group murmured yes. Drifting conversations in the rear died, and the next time Rob spoke, the room was so hushed he didn't have to raise his voice. Rob's eyes shone like red marbles.

"Thanks to everybody for coming," he said, and he had to clear his throat twice before going on. "These are unusual circ.u.mstances, and I appreciate you coming out to hear what I have to say. I couldn't think of what else to do but call a town meeting, since the phones at my office have been ringing off the hook. Instead of telling ya'll one at a time, I figured I'd better tell you all at once. That way, everybody hears it and there aren't any misunderstandings. But please bear with me. This has been the hardest day of my life, worse than any day I had in the Gulf."

His audience had turned to stone, waiting.

Rob took a breath while Melanie rubbed his forearm. "Art Brunell has been arrested, and he is in custody at the new jail. I'm sad to say that Glenn Brunell died earlier today. Art took him fishing...and held his head under the water until he drowned. Those are the facts as they have been presented to me. Art drowned Glenn today. An eyewitness is claiming Art did it on purpose, with the intent to kill him."

Angela heard Myles draw in a pained breath. She'd told him what she knew on the telephone, but Rob's report was still shocking, stripped to its ugly facts.

Rob tried to go on, but the audience had erupted, drowning out his words. "That'sbull s.h.i.t!" a tall, lavishly bearded man called hoa.r.s.ely from the far side of the room. He must have captured the room's sentiment, because their protests grew louder. Rob had to wait a long time for a lull. He stood patiently, allowing them to vent until the room went quiet again.

"Some of you know part of the story-and you know the age of the witness involved, so I understand why you have your doubts. But there have been other developments, people. Others have come forward." The room quieted, waiting. Angela hadn't heard about other developments. She'd spent the past two hours trying to help Liza's mother keep Liza from screaming.

"There are two more witnesses. One is saying Art told her at the market this morning he was going to kill his son today. At the time, the witness thought it was a joke, but now she doesn't. Another has told me Art took out a fifty-thousand-dollar life insurance policy on Glenn in Longview yesterday. Liza knew nothing about it-that's what she says, and I believe her. But we've been presented with a copy of the policy."

"That doesn't means.h.i.t!" the same bearded man shouted, his voice more hoa.r.s.e than before.

"Rourke, I hate this more than you do," Rob said. "I was at the house today. I saw Glenn's body. I had to put handcuffs on Art. I know how you feel. But let me tell you, without disclosing too many details, Art was behaving very, very erratically. And I know there hasn't been a trial yet-"

"d.a.m.n rightthere hasn't been!" a woman yelled behind Angela, anger rasping her voice. Angela turned to look at her, and she recognized the stout woman as one of Art's relatives, a cousin.

"I hear you, Sarah. I do. But I have to tell you straight, this thing looks real bad. Art is looking at the serious possibility of a prison sentence for this, even if it gets ruled an accidental drowning. And we can't keep it out of the press. I see Myles here...."

Angela felt an ache of guilt as the audience turned to look at Myles, following Rob's gaze. Now, the anger simmering in the room was directed toward them, the heat of more than a hundred pairs of eyes. Angela felt more like a stranger than she had in years.

"But we can't blame Myles," Rob said. "A TV station in Portland almost sent someone here tonight, except I stonewalled 'em so long. We all want to do what we can for Art and Liza, but there's no such thing as keeping this quiet-it's out. By this time tomorrow, the TV cameraswill be here. And maybe not just from Portland. Right, Myles?"

"Could be," Myles said, his voice raw. "He's the mayor, and unfortunately, there's a child involved. I wouldn't be surprised to see a network pick it up. It's possible."

There were new murmurs of anger and surprise. From the stage, Melanie mouthed the wordWhat? at Myles. She looked heartbroken that strangers would know their business.

"Well, Art always wanted the limelight, and he's about to be in it," Rob said, a grim joke, and a few people even laughed. "No matter how it all comes out in the end, we have friends who need prayer from us. Liza is...well, she's not good. She's at her parents' place. If you're a friend, don't be afraid to go see her, but wait a day or two." He paused, stuck momentarily on his thoughts of Liza. His pause forced Angela to freeze her own thoughts, because she could not allow herself to dwell on Liza. She knew something of how Liza felt tonight, and she'd never wish it on an enemy, never mind a friend. Liza hadn't spoken a coherent word since her visit to Glenn's room.

Rob was exhausted, obviously on the verge of tears himself. "We may never know what happened here, or why. My brain's not making sense of it, and neither will yours, once you hear the whole story. Believe me when I say that. But all of us in this room-in our hearts-know Art Brunell did not want to kill that little boy. Art loved Glenn, and he'd sooner go to h.e.l.l itself than hurt his child. We know that about Art Brunell, because that's the Art Brunellwe know."

The audience murmured loudly, an amen corner. Angela and Myles murmured with them.

"I'm no minister like my dad and granddad, but let's bow our heads a minute," Rob said.

That minute lasted longer than five. No one in the room so much as coughed.

Angela wasn't asleep when she heard the soft tapping on her hotel room door at twoA.M. , but she stared at the door a long time without moving, wondering if she was able to dream at last. "Angie?" a man's voice whispered from beyond the door.

Angela jumped out of bed, startled. She checked herself in the mirror to see if she was decently clothed, and she was. She'd put on pajamas after her long bath instead of throwing on a T-shirt like she usually did, searching for a semblance of comfort. The silk soothed her skin. Candlelight in the room soothed her psyche and spirit. After the meeting, feeling unsettled and miserable, she'd bought two large white candles at the Triangle Mall; one burned on her nightstand, the other on the dresser, coloring the room in a flickering yellowish light. Gramma Marie had always burned candles at important times, when there were prayers to be made, or when her weakest parts needed to be made stronger. Her room now smelled of vanilla, another comfort.

Anything to help her forget that other smell, or at least to try.

When Angela opened the door, she found Myles there, leaning against the door frame. He'd loosened his shirt, and his tie wound across his shoulders. His eyes looked awful.

"You're in luck," she said. "I have a coffeemaker."

"Bless you, lady," he said. "But no caffeine. I need to sleep sometime tonight."