Blood Brothers (36 page)

What if he took off right now? Left Jerry to
do whatever it was he intended, alone? That would most likely be
the best course of action. But even as those questions presented
themselves, Michael knew he wouldn’t be going anywhere. He owed
everything that was good in his life to Jerry, to his blood
brother. Jerry had befriended him, had extended the hand of
goodwill when Michael was sinking in the pool of slime that was his
life.

No, some things you just had to work through.
Whatever happened, he would carry out this crackpot idea. It was
the least he could do for the guy who changed his life. Wasn’t
it?

Jerry wasn’t in the room for a moment before
he stepped out again. In his hand was a shiny revolver with ivory
handles. Its long barrel gave it the look of the six shooters used
in every western Michael had ever seen on the television. Only this
wasn’t “Gunsmoke” or A Fistful of Dollars. This was as real as it
got.

Dalton’s bedroom lay only a dozen feet away
down the plush carpeted hallway. When the two arrived at the door,
Jerry swung back with the gun in his hand and slammed the door open
with the butt of the revolver. It might have been his imagination
running wild, but as Michael followed Jerry across the threshold,
he could feel a chill spreading through his body, a chill that the
warm house shouldn’t have caused.

A lamp was aglow on a bedside table. The bed
was huge, a four poster constructed of heavy dark wood and
embellished with intricate carvings. But the bed wasn’t what
instantly caught Mike’s attention. Strapped to the bed in a sitting
position, their backs against the high headboard, were Shelia and
Dalton Garrett. Naked, bleeding.

Mike’s eyes scanned Dalton’s bare chest but
settled on Shelia. Her breasts were small, pert, the nipples
slightly upturned.

There were a dozen small cuts across both
their bodies.

Dalton’s eyes grew large as his son burst
into the room, Shelia’s own, tear-filled, averted both boys. They
made little more than muffled sounds. Jerry had secured gags in
their mouths. A pair of his own wadded up underwear was stuck deep
into Dalton’s mouth, a belt holding it in place. Shelia was gagged
no more extravagantly; a pair of black socks filled her mouth, held
secure by the sash of a housecoat.

The cuts were angry, bleeding. While not
long, Michael guessed they were very deep, and painful. Jerry had
always had a fascination with knives, but save for their ritual at
the creek so many years ago, he’d never known his friend to turn
the blade on a living thing. Until now, that is.

“Look at them, Mike. Look at them.” Jerry
motioned with the gun. “How many guys you know ever expect to come
home early, tired after a long day at school, to find their piece
of ass riding their daddy’s cock like an amusement park ride? Not
too many I’d bet. Guess I’m just lucky that way.”

Dalton tried to talk, no doubt a plea to his
son. Jerry simply walked over, reared back and thundered a haymaker
into his father’s left temple.

Yeah, Michael thought, this is not only
illegal, it’s felonious.

Jerry slowly, as to not make his liquor-laced
walk apparent, waltzed to the other side of the bed. He ran a hand
over Shelia’s breast. She bucked as if his touch burned her flesh.
Michael willed her to be still, for both of them to be quiet. They
could still come back from this. All they had to do was remain
calm, not anger Jerry any further, and they could all walk
away.

“You’re a pretty girl, Shelia. But you aren’t
all that. Bitches like you, they’re a dime a dozen.” Jerry looked
up at his father. “Aren’t they, pops? You stupid fucker. You greedy
bastard. What in the fuck were you thinking?” Jerry’s voice grew
louder with each expletive.

Dalton shook his head violently. Shelia
merely whimpered.

“So, that brings us to this: What should I do
with you two?” He waited a heartbeat. Naturally, neither captive
could speak. “No ideas? What do you think, Mike?”

“I…uh…”

“You see, even Mike’s at a loss for words.”
Jerry moved over to Michael, holding out the gun. “Hold this.”

“Jer, I—”

“Take it.” It was an order. Despite his
strike back type of personality, he did just as he was told. The
gun was hefty, felt heavy in his hands, the grips remarkably cool.
Crazily, Michael felt powerful with the western-style pistol. His
experience with firearms was nil, but given different
circumstances, he felt he could start to like the feeling the
weapon gave him. Like it a lot, actually. But the fact that, while
he wasn’t holding the gun on Jerry’s father or his girlfriend, he
still held the gun, the two were still bound and gagged, and that
he had the ability to kill them both with two small pulls of the
trigger, soured what most likely would have been a supreme
feeling.

With his hands now free, Jerry started pacing
around the room. “You know if it was simply a matter of infidelity,
I wouldn’t be taking this anywhere near as hard. However, since
Shelia is not only my girlfriend, but I am in love with her, and
went not to Lonnie’s in Corinth for sports gear, but to the jewelry
shop in Tupelo, purchasing a very exquisite, very expensive
engagement ring, I’m tending to take this a bit harder. Especially
considering that my father, the man I respect most in the world,
the only man I respect for that matter, has been slipping the
salami to the love of my life,” he paused then, taking a deep
breath, “JUST BLOWS MY FREAKING MIND!”

Loosening the knots in the nylon rope that
held her, Jerry grabbed Shelia by her shoulders, fingers digging
into her soft flesh, and ripped out of her restraints. It was a
true testament of Jerry’s raw strength. He tossed her on the floor
like a rag doll.

“Jerry!” Michael shouted, taking a step
towards the recent couple.

Pivoting on one foot, Jerry came face to face
with Mike, and with the index finger of his right hand, he jabbed
his friend’s chest and said, “You’re either on my side or not. With
me or against me. Your choice, but I’d think about it really hard.”
The threat was clear even if unspoken. If he decided to jump the
fence he’d be no better off than his two captives, perhaps worse.
Michael looked into his friend’s eyes. There was nothing there but
pure anger. Obscene and corrosive hate flowed through him. The last
ten years of their lives, their friendship, their bond meant very
little at the moment.

Michael backed up.

Jerry kicked Shelia’s side. Ribs cracked loud
enough for everyone in the room to hear them. Shelia wailed against
the gag, her face flushing deep crimson. He jumped down on top of
her, straddling her as if he were about to make love. But no, there
was no love in Jerusalem. Not tonight, perhaps never again.

“I ought to choke the very life out of you.”
To emphasize his point, he throttled her, his big hands squeezing
her delicate neck. Shelia was very pretty. Michael could see her
and Jerry together. They could have made quite the couple. Her
brunette hair fell out to frame her face like soft silk, her tanned
skin, golden and alive. Even in this condition she was quite the
pretty young thing.

“Jerry, let her go.” It wasn’t a whisper
exactly, but something quite close. With Dalton struggling against
his ropes and Shelia whimpering louder and louder, there was no way
his words could carry. Grasping the gun tighter, “Damn it, Jerry. I
said stop it.”

The command went unheeded; Jerry fumbled at
his pants, trying to free himself. Obviously, he’d changed his mind
from strangling her to death to raping her. That’s what really got
Michael fired up. For some reason, rape started his blood to
boiling, for while he was having a bit of success controlling him
while he was beating on them, rape opened a whole other bag of
worms.

In a lightning-fast movement, Michael was at
Jerry’s back. He put the gun to his head. “Get off her,” he
commanded. Jerry stopped fiddling with his jeans but made no move
to rise. Michael pulled the trigger back, “I said, get off
her.”

Slowly, Jerry did rise. Slow, calculated,
each move signaled efficiency. Even though he was holding the gun,
Michael found himself sidestepping. He was a pretty good sized
young man. Built solid and tight, he could handle himself in a
tussle if he had to—he’d proven that. At least in a tussle with
someone who wasn’t Jerry Garrett. Jerry was the bigger of the two,
but Michael’s disadvantages didn’t end there. Michael could fight,
but Jerry was a fighter. There was a lot of difference between the
two. Michael fought when he had to, Jerry fought because he wanted
to. And, at least in what Michael had seen, he was very, very good
at it.

This was the last thing in the world Michael
wanted. Given a thousand years, he could never have imagined
turning a gun on his best friend. Never. It was sickening how
quickly sugar can turn to shit.

If Jerry feared the business end of the gun,
you couldn’t tell it by looking at him. They were just about the
same height, the difference just centimeters. Only four feet
separated them, and that was too close for Michael. Yet, he had to
maintain control, for if he lost it now, he would likely lose his
life.

“I see you’ve made your decision, pal,” Jerry
said, “I think you’ll regret it.”

“You didn’t leave me a choice, Jerry. I can’t
stand by while you do this. You shouldn’t do this.”

“I’ll give you one last chance, Mikey,
considering you’re my best friend. But this is going to happen. No
matter what you think.”

“Just move away from her, Jerry. Nothing’s
got to happen. Just chill, man. I know you’re upset. Hell, there’s
no way you couldn’t be. But this,” Michael said shaking the gun,
“this isn’t the answer.”

Jerry looked down at Shelia. She was shaking
from fear, from dread, from who knew what else. Then, to his
father, “You can have her; she’s nothing but a two-dollar whore
anyway.”

With a long step, Jerry moved away.

And went into action. With almost
supernatural speed, he lunged at Mike, grabbing the gun with one
hand and using the other as a bar to come up the inside Michael’s
outstretched arm. Michael felt the bone snap as Jerry brought him
down and his knee up, connecting with the elbow. His fingers went
weak, incredibly weak, and the gun started to fall from his hand.
But before it did fall, the finger on the trigger, whether by
reflex, forced movement, or a command from Michael’s brain, worked
the action and a bullet roared from the barrel. The sound was
deafening in the confines of the bedroom.

The revolver fell to the ground with a thud
on the shag carpeting.

Shocked that he’d fired the weapon, both
Jerry and Michael looked to see where the round went. Dalton
Garrett’s chest had erupted in blood. The bullet had created a
small, perfectly round hole, right above his sternum. There was
little blood flowing from the hole. A heart shot.

“Jesus Christ,” was all that Michael had time
to mutter before his world was rocked by Jerry’s fist. The shot
connected with his jaw and he dropped like a sack of potatoes.
Crumpled on the ground, his right arm useless, he tried to
backpedal his way with one arm—it wasn’t working. He saw Jerry
stoop to get the gun, but he couldn’t do anything about it. His arm
screamed in pain and his vision was badly blurred from the punch
that any world class boxer would have envied.

And then it was too late. The gun was pointed
at him. In the middle of the expansive bedroom, the knuckles of his
left hand buried in the deep carpet, there was nowhere for him to
go.

This was it.

He was going to die.

Not, of course, before committing murder.
Dalton Garrett had been a very good man. He’d treated Michael like
his own son. So, he’d made a mistake. Did that mean he deserved to
die at the hands of a teenager? Well, Michael didn’t know, but he
found himself more worried about his own skin than anyone else’s,
right now.

“Go,” Jerry said simply. At first Michael
wasn’t sure he’d heard him right. “Go,” he said again. “Get out.
You can’t save her. But you can save yourself.”

Was this a trick? Was Jerry really letting
him go? Or was it merely a diversionary tactic so he could shoot
him in the back?

“Go, god damn it. Before I change my
mind.”

Shelia had gotten to her knees; she was
pulling herself to her feet by the bed. Jerry pivoted on his heel,
bringing the gun to bear.

It was now or never. Jerry was right. He
couldn’t save her, but he could save himself.

Michael turned, used his feet to kick off and
was up and running. He was out of the bedroom and to the stairs
before he heard the gunshot ring out. But he didn’t stop there. He
ran and ran and ran.

Michael didn’t stop running until he was down
the Garrett’s driveway and out on the county road. He was
breathless, hurting, scared and confused.

That was the night that Michael Cole lost his
innocence.

Now

Breaking glass crashed just as Jerry was
ending the call with Mike. He’d heard it, but forced himself to
remain calm. Now that the call was over, he headed off to
investigate.

The house was large. The house was falling
apart. Dalton Garrett had been a brilliant man with outstanding
foresight. When he’d built up the house, he’d set up a fund to
cover property taxes and a myriad assortment of incidentals.
Unfortunately, that fund did not include provisions for upkeep or
routine maintenance.

There was no electrical service, nor did
Jerry plan on having it restored. The electricity the house did
have was provided courtesy of an old, rusted generator in the
basement. It didn’t power much besides the lights, but Jerry didn’t
require much.

The steps groaned underfoot and the banister,
once a richly polished oak, strained under his hand.