Thicker Than Water (24 page)

Once the car is in park, he looks at me hard. “Proof: Look at what you did to your cute little girlfriend last night.”

I stare at him.

“I heard the charges,” he says.

“I didn’t do any of that. I didn’t break into her house.”

“I’d bet you’ve done a lot of things you don’t remember doing.”

I think of waking in the middle of the night. Walking down the hallway. Finding her body.

I think about the deadbolt, the lack of clues.

I swallow.

“Think about it,” he says. “Really think about it.”

I didn’t hurt my mother. I didn’t hurt Charlotte.

But I think about our relationship so far, the way we’ve come together over the last few weeks. Every time we’re close, I feel as though I can’t get enough of her. It takes all of my self-control to keep from pressing down on the accelerator until we’re going a hundred miles per hour, leaving clothes in our wake.

Innocent little Charlotte, climbing in my lap in the car, jerking the shirt over her head.

Sweet Charlotte, watching my lips or tracking my movements.

Her indrawn breath when I said,
Don’t make me pick you up and put you in the chair.
The excitement that coursed through me when I thought about doing it anyway.

“I was a gentleman,” I whisper.

“I know,” he says. “And I think that was the whole problem.”

And with that, my brother gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I
follow him. What else am I going to do, sit in the car?

We’re in a gritty part of the city. This has to be Washington, D.C. I don’t know every back corner of Baltimore, of course, but this doesn’t have the feel of my home city. The architecture is vaguely different, maybe. No putrid stench from the harbor here.

There are plenty of disgusting odors to make up for it. JB is walking down an alley lined with dumpsters, and I hustle to catch up to him. Rotting food makes my stomach turn, mixing with a burned grease odor that tells me we’re near several less-than-healthy restaurants. A rat skitters behind a box when we approach. Two men, one black and one white, are having a conversation up ahead, and they stop talking and glare at us. The white guy takes a long draw from a cigarette. His eyes track us suspiciously.

Again, I’m reminded of the disparity between me and Charlotte being mirrored here in reverse. JB is confident, no sign of hesitation. For the most part, I grew up in Baltimore City and I have no qualms about walking the streets, but there are still areas where I won’t go.

This alley feels like an area where I shouldn’t go. I don’t like the way they’re watching us. A promise of violence hangs in the air.

“What are we doing?” I ask under my breath.

“Show and tell.”

“What?”

“What do you feel?”

“I feel . . .” I swallow. “I feel like we shouldn’t be here.”

“Why?”

He sounds like a teacher. I don’t mind. I feel like I need one. “Because they don’t want us here.”

“You’re right. Do you think they’ll hurt us?”

“I have no idea.”

He gives me a look. “Yes, you do. Pay attention.”

The white guy takes another draw from his cigarette, then leans close to the other man to say something. The black guy nods and ducks back through a door.

I’m paying attention to the remaining man, trying to sort through what I’m feeling. He’s middle-aged with graying hair, but he’s built like a hard life got him here. Tattoos crawl down one arm. Lines surround his mouth as he inhales the smoke from his cigarette. His eyes flick to me, and then to my brother. They stay on JB—probably smart. I’m not the threat here.

As we approach, he stubs out his cigarette on the wall. I let my eyes unfocus and try to force my mind to . . . do something. I’m not entirely sure what. This is like playing one of those cheap kids’ games, with the plastic maze and the tiny ball. As soon as I lock on something, it slips out of the space.

Then, almost by accident, I get the little ball into the slot. Suspicion, check. Fear, check.

Deception. Check.

“Hey,” says JB. “I’m looking for Mark Duplessy.”

The man flicks the stubbed cigarette at JB’s feet. “I don’t know him.”

He’s lying. I feel it so strongly, as if the lie lodges in my brain and leaves a residue there. My heartbeat skyrockets and I want to shake JB’s arm.

I don’t. He knows it, too. I have no doubt.

JB says, “Maybe we can try again. I’m looking for Mark Duplessy.”

“Look, asshole, I said I don’t know him.”

No. This man won’t hurt us. If anything, he’s going to run. If I could take his pulse, it would beat mine in a race. He’s feeling a little confident, though, like he has an ace up his sleeve.

JB reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. I can’t tell what it is from here, but it looks like a mug shot with a bunch of other text on the page.

He doesn’t look away from the man. “Funny. You look just like him.”

The air shifts. The man bolts. He shoves the door open so quickly that it bounces back against the frame before JB follows.

“Come on, Tommy!” he shouts.

I only knew it a moment before he ran, but I knew it. I
knew
it.

I’m giddy, but I follow. Down a few concrete steps, and then through another door. We burst into a dank restaurant kitchen.

And we’re immediately surrounded.

We skid to a stop. All the breath leaves my lungs in a rush. Four men and two women block our path. The man we saw earlier has a gun, and it’s pointed right at JB. The tension in this room is so strong I’m worried it’s going to rattle me apart. A fryer sizzles somewhere to our left, and the heat down here is enough to knock me out.

Mark Duplessy is beyond the group, near another doorway. “Fuck you, assholes,” he says. Then he shoves through the swinging door with bravado.

The man with the gun shakes it, gesturing toward the back. “Y’all better get out the way you came.”

I would feel so much better about this whole interaction if this guy didn’t have a gun pointed at us. He’s confident. Protective, but not angry. Definitely not afraid.

“I can’t leave,” says JB. “I have a court order to reclaim Mark Duplessy. So if you’ll just step aside—”

The man cocks the hammer. “Get out.”

JB grabs his wrist and throws a punch. His movement is so fast, I lose track of it. The gun skitters to the floor, and the man goes down. I feel like I missed a moment of time again. I need a replay button.

“Don’t just stand there!” JB shouts at me. “Go after Duplessy!”

I run for the swinging door before I can rethink this. Maybe he’s making me do it somehow. I push through, and I’m standing in a small restaurant. Small tables, torn vinyl seats. A few people are eating, and they look up in surprise as I burst out of the door. No one here is a threat to us. There’s no sign of Duplessy.

Then a woman at one of the tables points to the door. “He ran out.”

Her companion shushes her, but that’s all I need to hear.

Do I go after him? Do I wait for JB? I can’t catch my breath. I don’t know what I’m doing.

If I find this guy, what am I supposed to do? JB is armed. I’m not.

Then JB is through the swinging door. Swearing erupts behind him.

He’s rushed, but not bothered. “Kid, you’re supposed to be chasing him.”

“I didn’t—what happ—?”

“Come on.” He pushes through the front door into the sunlight.

I’m only a second behind him, but he’s running down the sidewalk before I even get there. I have no idea how he spotted his mark, because the streets are crowded with pedestrians, but there, a good twenty feet ahead of him, runs the man we’re chasing.

“Holy shit,” I say.

Then the restaurant door is flung wide, and the man with the gun is coming after me.

I run like hell.

This is totally not how I expected my afternoon to go. I really didn’t think my day could get more surreal.

My brother is fast as shit. I’m not slow, but I feel like it. I’m guessing he does this a lot. Adrenaline pushes me faster. I keep waiting for shots to explode behind me, but they don’t. It doesn’t feel like anyone is chasing me.

I chance a glance back, and I’m right. The man from the restaurant didn’t pursue me.

Horns blare from the road. Mark Duplessy is bolting into traffic, narrowly avoiding getting hit by a city bus. Then he heads down another alley and disappears from sight.

JB is equally fearless. He cuts a similar path through traffic and doesn’t hesitate as cars miss him.

I’m not that badass—or that insane. I wait for a gap and run after them.

This alley is deserted, a dark tunnel of heat between two buildings, but I hear a shout farther down. I run to catch up. I turn a corner just in time to see JB slam the man against a wall. He’s got one of Mark’s arms twisted up and behind his back, but the other man is taller and he struggles. Maybe something has shifted in me, but emotions come to me in waves now.

The most powerful ones can’t be ignored. Fury. Fear. Anger. Others have less of an impact: Resignation. Regret.

“Get my gun,” says JB. His voice is tight and thready.

My eyes widen. “Me?”

“No, him. I want him to get my gun.” He shoves the man against the wall again before he can get leverage. “Come on, Tommy.”

I stop hesitating, and I put my hand on the butt of the gun and pull it out of the holster.

Until this moment, I’ve never held a firearm. It’s heavier than I expected, a solid weight of metal in my hand. My index finger hovers near the trigger, but now that it’s against my palm, I’m almost afraid to have it in my grip. It’s not like holding a knife or a hammer. This thing is specifically designed to kill people. In a weird way, I suddenly feel more powerful.

I’m not sure this is a good feeling.

“Shoot him,” says JB.

The fear in the alley triples. I’m not sure if it’s Mark’s or it’s mine. I almost drop the gun. “What?”

“Shoot him.”

Mark redoubles his struggles. “Fuck you! You fucking dirty bastard! You—”

“Shut up.” JB does something that makes him grunt in pain.

Something flickers in me. My finger shifts before I can stop it. The surprise has worn off, and the only fear left is in the man pinned against the wall.

JB was right. There’s power in the emotion. I want more of it.

I don’t even know this guy. I don’t want to hurt him. But this fear . . . I wish I knew how to cock the hammer of the gun, because I think the sound would do interesting things.

This is heady. I’m scaring myself.

“In the head or in the leg?” I hear myself saying. My voice is even. Confident. Unafraid.

Fear explodes like starbursts behind my eyes. Mark tries to throw JB off. The man starts screaming. Crying for help.

Metal rattles. JB has handcuffs, and he’s slapping them against Mark’s wrists efficiently. “Shut up,” he says again, exasperated. “No one is going to shoot you.” He pulls on Mark’s arm and drags him away from the wall.

Then he puts out a hand to me. “Give it back.”

My breathing feels too quick, but I’m so charged I think I could run a marathon right now. “What just happened?”

“We’ll talk about it in the car. Give it back, so we can get this guy out of here.”

“I’m going to report you assholes,” Mark says. “I’m going to get your license pulled—”

“Yeah, yeah.” JB gives him a shove. “Tom. The gun.”

I move to hold it out to him, and he quickly grabs my wrist and turns my hand away. His expression is aggrieved. “Without pointing it at me.”

“Sorry.” My mouth is dry, but I swallow. I release the gun into his hand, and he shoves it back into the holster, then pulls on Mark’s arm again.

“Don’t you have to read him his rights?” I say, once we’re walking.

“I’m not a cop.”

“No,” snaps Mark. “You’re a dirty fucking bounty hunter—”

“Shut up,” JB says again. “Before I change my mind about shooting you.”

 

By the time we’re in the car, my heart rate has found a normal rhythm. Mark has kept up a litany of profanity the whole way back to the vehicle. I was worried about walking in front of the restaurant again, but JB assures me that no one will bother us.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Some people will help a skip get away, but they won’t risk themselves to stop you once you’ve caught him.”

And he’s right. No one comes out of the restaurant. People on the street treat JB like he’s a cop. No one stops him. No one questions him.

In the car, Mark spits at us through the grilled partition and bangs his head on the metal, making it rattle. I’m glad for the barrier. No mental powers are needed to understand his mind-set right now.

This is going to be irritating as all get-out for the drive home.

“Check this out,” JB says, as we pull onto the highway. He presses a button on his center console, and a layer of glass rises between the front seats and the back. We can still hear Mark and his invectives, but they’re muffled.

“Handy,” I say, impressed.

“You have no idea. Best money I’ve ever put into this thing.” He puts out a hand and smacks me on the shoulder. “You did good, kid. I wasn’t sure how you’d handle it.”

I glance at him, and then back at the road. For the first time in a long, long while, I feel a glow of belonging. “I’m glad you didn’t tell me what we were doing.”

“I didn’t want to leave you alone, but I wasn’t sure you’d come if I told you we were picking up a drug dealer.”

Wow. I let that go. “So you’re allowed to just . . . do that? Arrest people?”

“If they skip bail? Sure.” He hits the turn signal to merge into traffic. “When we post bail, they sign a contract, waiving their rights if they decide not to show up for court. We can arrest them, we can cross state lines, we can break into their house if we think it’s warranted . . . you name it.”

“And that’s all legal?”

“Yep.” He glances over. “You signed the same thing. You should learn to read, little brother. Better not think about running.”

I snort, but his words inspire just a tiny inkling of fear. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“Neither did this guy, but he found people to take him in.”

“How’d you find him?”

JB looks at me over his sunglasses. “I am very, very good at finding people.”

I hesitate.

“Ask your question,” he says.

“Stop that. Why did you tell me to shoot him?”

He looks over again. “What scares you more? That I told you to do it, or that you thought about it?”

I look back out at the road. Cars still give way around us, and this time, I wonder if this is another extension of his empathic abilities. “Both,” I say.

“I knew you wouldn’t shoot him. I wouldn’t have let you take the gun.”

“How?” I demand. “How did you know?”

“Because you weren’t in the right mental state. You had no stake in killing him.” He pauses, then gives me a smile. “Scaring him, though . . .”

I keep my eyes on the road, warring with my own morality. “I didn’t like it.”