to call out, ask where Mom was, but he thought it better to remain silent.
Winding his way through the living room, he refrained from turning on any lights. He listened, hoping to hear the murmur of voices from the television, maybe a Golden Girls rerun, one of Mom’s all-time favorite shows.
The dining room revealed a tipped-over oak chair. The picture of him taken sophomore year, the one with the mullet and the skinny tie, hung askew on the wall. Trouble had found the O’Donnell house. The question was what kind, Hark or random street crime.
He still hadn’t heard any noise from the back bedroom. The house was still except for the furnace motor whirring in the basement.
In the kitchen, he smelled the remnants of lemon dish soap. A pile of clean dishes was stacked in the dish drain, which meant Jasmine had been here to clean up, but she wouldn’t have left the lights off.
Only the hallway and the two back bedrooms were left. In the hallway, he saw the bathroom door was open. The closet door was closed. Outside, he thought he heard a car pull up and a door slam, but he dismissed it. He poked his head into the bathroom. The shower curtain was drawn, but he saw no shape behind it, and unless someone had found a way to cram themselves into a medicine cabinet, no one else could have hidden in the bathroom.
He left the bathroom, stared at the scarred bedroom door, gouged by their late bulldog, Max. From behind the door he smelled it, like meat gone bad. And under it, the smell of shit.
Dear God, I’m going to go in there and she’s going to be dead, like a wax dummy, lying in her own filth. You weren’t even here, you rotten fuck. Your mother was dying and you were out burning buildings.
He nudged the door open with his foot. Between the twin beds, he saw the body.
It wasn’t his mother, but Jasmine. The comforter and sheet lay crumpled on her back, and a blotch of blood soaked the sheet. The rear of her pants were soiled brown, and one white Reebok lay next to her foot. He felt his dinner start to kick back up his throat. He clamped his hand over his mouth. She’d been a nice lady, quick to smile, and Mom was always glad to see her.
It wasn’t Mom, but would he find her somewhere else? Maybe someone tossed her down the basement stairs and she broke her neck and he would find her in a heap, staring at him with glassy dead eyes.
Behind him, the closet door opened with a groan. He whirled around and saw a bullnecked guy with a crew cut standing half out of the closet. He had a mole the size of a dime on his cheek. He grinned at Mike.
Mike leveled the .45, intent on blasting the mole back through the guy’s face. The guy laughed, a phlegmy chuckle that added to Mike’s already considerable nausea.
“You aren’t gonna shoot me.”
“Try me.”
“You fucked up that arson job, O’Donnell. It’s all over the news.”
“I’d stop talking if I were you,” Mike said.
The guy closed the closet door. He brushed off the front of his sport coat. His casual manner made Mike want to pull the trigger even more.
“Hark’s got a car waiting outside for you. He wants to talk.”
“Suppose I don’t feel like taking a ride.”
“I think we can persuade you.”
“How’s that?”
“You’ll see. Let’s go.”
“You kill her?” Mike said and nodded, indicating Jasmine.
Again that phleghmy laugh. “You think I’d tell you? Now let’s fucking go.”
He started to reach inside the sport coat and Mike stepped forward and raised the gun and brought it down on an arc, the butt of the handle cracking against the guy’s cheek and crumpling him against the wall. Mike hammered the gun down again, striking the base of the skull, and the guy flopped to the floor.
Now he heard another voice, a deep base, coming from the front of the house, saying, “What the fuck’s taking him so long?”
He had two options: charge out the front door and blast his way out, which would definitely bring the cops to Smith
Winding his way through the living room, he refrained from turning on any lights. He listened, hoping to hear the murmur of voices from the television, maybe a Golden Girls rerun, one of Mom’s all-time favorite shows.
The dining room revealed a tipped-over oak chair. The picture of him taken sophomore year, the one with the mullet and the skinny tie, hung askew on the wall. Trouble had found the O’Donnell house. The question was what kind, Hark or random street crime.
He still hadn’t heard any noise from the back bedroom. The house was still except for the furnace motor whirring in the basement.
In the kitchen, he smelled the remnants of lemon dish soap. A pile of clean dishes was stacked in the dish drain, which meant Jasmine had been here to clean up, but she wouldn’t have left the lights off.
Only the hallway and the two back bedrooms were left. In the hallway, he saw the bathroom door was open. The closet door was closed. Outside, he thought he heard a car pull up and a door slam, but he dismissed it. He poked his head into the bathroom. The shower curtain was drawn, but he saw no shape behind it, and unless someone had found a way to cram themselves into a medicine cabinet, no one else could have hidden in the bathroom.
He left the bathroom, stared at the scarred bedroom door, gouged by their late bulldog, Max. From behind the door he smelled it, like meat gone bad. And under it, the smell of shit.
Dear God, I’m going to go in there and she’s going to be dead, like a wax dummy, lying in her own filth. You weren’t even here, you rotten fuck. Your mother was dying and you were out burning buildings.
He nudged the door open with his foot. Between the twin beds, he saw the body.
It wasn’t his mother, but Jasmine. The comforter and sheet lay crumpled on her back, and a blotch of blood soaked the sheet. The rear of her pants were soiled brown, and one white Reebok lay next to her foot. He felt his dinner start to kick back up his throat. He clamped his hand over his mouth. She’d been a nice lady, quick to smile, and Mom was always glad to see her.
It wasn’t Mom, but would he find her somewhere else? Maybe someone tossed her down the basement stairs and she broke her neck and he would find her in a heap, staring at him with glassy dead eyes.
Behind him, the closet door opened with a groan. He whirled around and saw a bullnecked guy with a crew cut standing half out of the closet. He had a mole the size of a dime on his cheek. He grinned at Mike.
Mike leveled the .45, intent on blasting the mole back through the guy’s face. The guy laughed, a phlegmy chuckle that added to Mike’s already considerable nausea.
“You aren’t gonna shoot me.”
“Try me.”
“You fucked up that arson job, O’Donnell. It’s all over the news.”
“I’d stop talking if I were you,” Mike said.
The guy closed the closet door. He brushed off the front of his sport coat. His casual manner made Mike want to pull the trigger even more.
“Hark’s got a car waiting outside for you. He wants to talk.”
“Suppose I don’t feel like taking a ride.”
“I think we can persuade you.”
“How’s that?”
“You’ll see. Let’s go.”
“You kill her?” Mike said and nodded, indicating Jasmine.
Again that phleghmy laugh. “You think I’d tell you? Now let’s fucking go.”
He started to reach inside the sport coat and Mike stepped forward and raised the gun and brought it down on an arc, the butt of the handle cracking against the guy’s cheek and crumpling him against the wall. Mike hammered the gun down again, striking the base of the skull, and the guy flopped to the floor.
Now he heard another voice, a deep base, coming from the front of the house, saying, “What the fuck’s taking him so long?”
He had two options: charge out the front door and blast his way out, which would definitely bring the cops to Smith
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