Bottom Feeder (18 page)

“
Same as always,” he
replies. “Now you. Tell me about leaving Emil’s party with Lamont
Washington right after Chris clocked him for dancing with
you.”

I roll my eyes. “He didn’t hit him for
dancing with me.”

The Jarrett family outings are always
sans technology, so I have not spoken to Dixon since the morning
after the party. That visit was only to say goodbye for his few
days away from civilization. I replay my night at the party,
beginning with dancing and ending with going semi-psycho on Jackson
in the hotel parking lot.

“
Hell yeah, Maddy!” Dixon
holds his hand out for a fist bump. “I knew you wouldn’t fall for
his stupid shit.”

“
Yeah,” I say, stuffing
clothes into a suitcase. I want to tell him the truth: that I have,
in fact, fallen for Jackson’s stupid sh—er, stuff. “I just wish it
were different, you know?”

“
No, you don’t,” he
replies soberly. “Not with him. Especially when a deal with
you-know-who is involved.”

Dixon is right. Still, there is an
ache in the pit of my stomach that’s never been there before. An
ache that surfaced when I knew Jackson was going to Laney’s house.
The same ache was made stronger when Lamont whispered in my ear
that Jackson would never be seen with me. The worst, most gut
wrenching ache came when he let me in on a little piece of his war
experience. I wanted to take the pain and guilt away from him. I
wanted to take it on myself so he wouldn’t have those nightmares,
so he wouldn’t feel what I have felt for so long.

What is it about Jackson that makes me
feel like this? The upcoming week in Fayetteville is going to be
like pouring salt on a fresh wound.

My cell phone rings, breaking through
some R-rated thoughts of a certain sandy haired fellow who holds my
hand and leaves a trail of heat where his lips were pressed on my
skin. “Will you answer that, DJ?” I yell from inside my
closet.

Dixon pushes the phone into my hand.
“I’ll be back in a few hours. I need to wash the nature off of me
and start packing.”

I look at the phone warily.
“Hello?”

“
Hey, Maddy,” the voice
says. “It’s Chris.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “What’s
up?”

“
I wanted to apologize for
the other night.”

“
Lamont is the one you
punched, not me.”

“
True,” he laughs. “I
shouldn’t have left like that. I was angry. Listen, hey, can I come
see you?”

Ten minutes later, I rush to the gate
where Chris answers my greeting with a strong embrace; something I
didn’t know I needed until his arms were wrapped around my
shoulders.

“
So you’re leaving, huh?
N-Y-C!” Chris says, leaning against a pillar. “Jackson is taking
you?”

“
Yep and yep.” Claps of
thunder roar overhead, followed by tiny pin-pricking raindrops.
“Let’s go inside.”

I lead Chris into the kitchen,
thankful the house appears to be empty. After offering him
something to eat or drink, he settles at the breakfast bar with a
glass of sweet tea and two scones. When Jackson left the rooftop
that night—or morning, I should say—I came downstairs and baked
everything I could think to bake. Then I went to the grocery store
and bought more ingredients to bake more baked goods.

Chris takes a bite of the maple scone.
“Listen, Maddy, I wanted to tell you this before, but since—” He
pauses, taking another bite of scone. And another. “Thank
you.”

“
For?”

“
For giving up
valedictorian. Other than Lamont, no one in my family knows. It
means a lot to them—and me—that I stood up there and delivered a
bullshit speech about our futures.”

My goodness there are no secrets in
this town. “How did . . .”

“
I worked in the office,
remember? I kept a close eye on my competition.”

I pick at my cuticles. “Chris . .
.”

He holds his hands up to stop me. “I
know, I know. I just couldn’t let you leave without saying thanks.”
He looks around the kitchen. “Think you’ll ever come
back?”

“
No,” I reply honestly.
“No, I don’t think I will.”

He nods as if he already knew the
answer.

I hear the front door open and close.
“Maddy!”

I jump from the chair and start
putting some of the scones, muffins, and a few other pastries in a
bakery box.

“
My cue to leave?” Chris
asks.

“
I’m sorry,” I say,
grabbing his hand and leading him to a side door.

“
Maddy,” Larry’s lips curl
into a smirk. He glances at my fingers interlaced with Chris’s.
“Who’s your friend?”

Straightening my spine and slapping a
smile on my face, I reply, “You know Chris Washington, Mr. Duvall.
He came to pick up these pastries for Mrs. Washington.”

While the two shake hands and exchange
small pleasantries, I mentally prepare for battle.

“
He doesn’t take too
kindly to black folks, huh?” Chris asks once we are outside the
gate.

“
Honestly,” I say, still
holding his hand like a lifeline. “I don’t think he takes too
kindly to
any
folks, no matter what race they are.”

“
He’s creepy.”

“
That he is.”

With a deep, cleansing breath, I step
back inside the house.

THWACK!

My ears ring with a hit I didn’t see
coming. I waver without losing complete balance. Larry’s hand
whirls in the air for another open-handed slap.

This time, I duck.

“
God, you’re such a slut!”
he barks, going for another slap. I bob-and-weave the next few
fists that swing at my face.

“
Larry Duvall,” I say
calmly, stepping backwards into the kitchen. “I told you the last
time would be the last time.”

“
Maddy!” My father calls
from somewhere in the house. The distraction gives Larry a chance
at one last closed-fist swing that sends me staggering. My face
plants on a wrought iron wall sconce. I’ve always hated those
stupid things.

“
Maddy!” My father yells
again. “You home?”

I straighten from my semi-crouched
position. I remove the elastic band from my hair so the strands
cover my face. “In the kitchen, Daddy!”

“
One word,” Larry Duvall
says next to my ear. “Gets your precious Violet gutted and fed to
the swamp.”

“
Larry,” my father greets,
entering the kitchen. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“
I dropped in to see Maddy
before she leaves us,” Larry answers, once again turning his lips
into a smirk.

“
Did she thank you for
stopping by?” My father asks like I’m not in the room.

Genuine hurt spreads across the
monster’s face. “She sure didn’t.”

My father shoots me a look of death.
“Madelyn Faith Carrington, where’re your manners? I raised you
better.”

I muster up a convincing smile. “I was
just getting to that when you came in, Daddy.”

The primer, BB cream, liquid
foundation, concealer and pressed powder I put on to cover up the
marks left by Larry are wearing off by the time Dixon returns at
eight p.m. to find me asleep in my closet. He wakes me with a kiss
on the forehead.

“
I know you can’t tell
anyone,” he whispers, tears rolling down his flawless face. “But
you don’t have to hide this from me.” He gently wipes away the
makeup.

I never told Dixon about Larry. He
figured it out after I used the same explanations for the bruises
on my face and body. I was such an amateur back then. I made
another deal with Larry to stop hitting my face or anywhere else
visible.

I understand it’s not normal to make
deals with your abuser. You take any break you can get,
though.

When Dixon told me he knew what was
happening I threw up on his shoes. Not exactly my finest moment,
but I’ve had worse.

“
Want to get out of here
tonight?” he asks.

“
I want to get out of here
for good,” I reply, resting my head on his shoulder.

I never care about looking or feeling
weak in front of him. He’s seen me at my worst, my best, and
everything in between.

I change into pajamas, grab an
overnight bag and climb in Dixon’s Bronco. We spend the rest of the
night on his living room floor watching 80s Brat Pack movies,
eating fried okra, vegetarian pizza and not-so-vegetarian hot
wings.

Later I sit next to a sleeping Dixon
and think about my conversation with Agent Mace a few days
ago.

“
We need you to extract
some information from Cordell’s personal computers,” he
said.

“
In the house?”

“
And the main
warehouse.”

I fidgeted on the warm leather seats
of the Lincoln Town Car. “How do you expect me to get inside the
warehouse without being seen?” Cameras are everywhere on that
property, inside and out. Not to mention a full security team on
shift at all times.

“
The basement window at
the back is low enough for you to climb in without being hurt or
seen. The cameras will be disabled in two-minute intervals. That is
all the time we can give you without the security company being
notified and the on-site security team becoming suspicious. Every
movement needs to be carried out precisely to the last detail or
you’re caught. I don’t have to tell you what happens if you are
caught.” The agent sighed and adjusted his cuff links. “We’re low
on help with this case, Madelyn. Cordell has a lot of people in his
pocket. This investigation is low-tech and low-profile. We have
evidence for suspected murders, but our case for Cordell goes
deeper than the murder of a few locals. I can’t tell you any more
than that. I’m only telling you this much because I suspect he
knows you have spoken with us.”

I nodded. I figured as
much.

“
From here on out,” Agent
Mace continues, “Our communication will be limited. Do not attempt
to contact us, we will come to you.”

The car came to a stop in front of the
farmer’s market. Jackson looked up from the tailgate of Mrs.
Brenner’s truck.

“
Keep that soldier away
from Cordell,” Agent Mace says. “They are too dangerous
together.”

Dangerous? Jackson?

“
Be at the church on the
corner of Abecorn and East Harris Sunday morning at one fifteen.
This car will pick you up and drop you close to the
warehouse.”

I handed over the cell phone and
exited the car with a flash drive, instructions on what to do and
how to do it. Agent Mace also provided a cover story if I’m caught
downloading files from the house and warehouse. Doesn’t matter,
though. If anyone catches me, I’m dead.

I glance at the clock. 12:23
a.m.

I pull out my makeup bag and begin my
usual foundation routine.

The night Jackson came over I went to
the roof to conceal the drive inside the chaise cushions. I
finished downloading the content of Daddy’s computer only minutes
before I heard the gate ring and managed to shove the drive inside
my bra instead.

Clever, I am not.

Downloading the information was easy,
though. A little too easy, if I think about it enough.

12:25 a.m. I sigh heavily and tap
Dixon’s shoulder.

“
Time to go?” he asks
sleepily.

“
Time to go.”

By 12:30 he is shifting Mrs. Jarrett’s
minivan in neutral and backing it down his driveway. The ignition
turns over silently. At the end of the street he turns on the
lights and begins the drive into Savannah.

“
Tell me again,” I
say.

“
Maddy, we’ve been over
this a thousand times.”

“
Humor me.”

Dixon blows out a puff of air. “I
dropped her off in Madison Square around one a.m.—I can’t be too
precise because it seems rehearsed—because she was meeting some guy
there. She made me leave before he showed up.”

I have to make sure the
story he is telling is the truth. Dixon knows nothing about what’s
happening or who I am meeting. “Whatever you do, DJ, do
not
wait on me. Go home,
go to sleep, and I will see you later today. You have to
promise.”

“
Maddy,” his voice breaks,
“what is this about?”

“
I need you to promise me
one more thing.” Before he can protest, I continue, “For the next
few days after I’m gone, promise to be extra careful everywhere you
go. Check your truck, Matt’s car, and your parents’ cars. Don’t go
out alone, especially after dark. Be extra cautious of everything
you do.”

He bangs the steering wheel. “I’m sick
of these monsters.”

“
Promise
.
Me.
”

“
I promise.”

I make sure he is out of sight before
making my way across Bull Street, down East Macon, sticking to the
shadows and tree lines. I begin jogging at Drayton Street to work
off some of the adrenaline coursing through my body. At the eastern
edge of Lafayette Square I slink down against the backside of the
three-tiered fountain.