Chapter Two

Brody

"Use your knees when you pick up a heavy load," I yelled. "Worker's comp doesn't pay for stupidity."

"Actually, it does," Sammy said. "It wouldn't be necessary if people weren't stupid."

"Accidents still happen," I grumbled, gesturing for him to follow me into the office trailer. "But my ass gets chewed when they do. I sure don't need my ass chewed because dimwit strained his back."

"Safety first."

"Right."

At the table where the construction blueprints were laid out and pinned, I traced my finger over the framed house where most of my crew were working. Pushing my hard hat back, I said, "Keep your eye on where Georgie and his guys are pouring the cement for the foundation at this house over here."

"You don't think Georgie is doing a good job?"

I made a yea-nay gesture. "I do, sure. But the OSHA inspector is riding the higher ups. That means they're riding me. Without kissing me first."

Sammy, my assistant as well as my eyes and ears on a housing project that contained crews of over sixty men, nodded. "You got it, boss. Georgie does tend to take risks he shouldn't."

"Not with OSHA watching, anyway," I replied. "He's got a gift for getting the most out of his guys, but he takes short cuts. While I doubt the rumor is true, I heard OSHA has a dude undercover here."

Sammy's expression morphed from open and mild to disgusted. "Those bozos think the sun shines out their asses. Georgie's short cuts get the job done and within budget."

I grinned. "I'm not arguing. Just remind Georgie we're being watched. Don't spread it any further, okay? We don't need all the crews pissy right now."

"I won't."

Sammy offered me a quick salute, then left the trailer. I sat down to further examine the blueprints, yet my mind kept shifting from work problems to Lindsey. That's one helluva woman there, buckwheat. As flighty as a deer, too. I recalled the shadow I'd seen in her sky-blue eyes, the hint of a past pain that dogs her even now. A pain that might never go away.

Time didn't heal wounds. It only covered them with scar tissue.

I sure knew all about pain and scars.

As I studied the blueprints, forcing thoughts of Lindsey from my mind, I scribbled notes to myself as a way of a reminder – order cement, call the head honcho, get the architect back on site. I scratched my sweaty head under my hat, frowning over the lists of supplies the workers needed and worried about the budget.

I barely registered the door's squeak as it opened, half-thinking Sammy returned.

"Hiya, bro."

Frowning, I glanced up, at first not recognizing the voice.

A man I hadn't seen for a few years stood at the door. My age, he'd gone to high school with me, we'd played football on the same team. After school, however, our paths diverged. The last I'd heard of him was that he'd been arrested for selling drugs.

"Austin?" I stood, held out my hand. "Been a while, man."

He hesitated before he took it. Unlike me, he'd let himself go soft. His cheeks had altered to near jowls, his belly bulged under his shirt. His jaw was still squared, covered in dark bristles. He'd loosened his tie at his throat, and sweat stained his white shirt at his armpits.

I didn't fail to notice the cold gleam in his brown eyes.

"I need a word with you," Austin said, hitching his hip against the table.

"Okay," I replied slowly, wondering why he sought me out after all these years. "What's up?"

"I want what you stole from me."

I blinked. I felt my jaw drop. Perhaps he saw my bafflement, for Austin's face puckered, however briefly, in confusion. "Dude," I said slowly. "I haven't seen you in five years. I didn't steal any shit from you."

"My security cameras picked up the thief," Austin continued, his eyes calculating, chilly. "A big guy in our high school's lettermen's jacket, your number on it. Your head, your face."

"Are you shitting me?" I snapped. "What did I allegedly steal?"

"Ten kilos of fentanyl."

I sagged back into my chair, staring at his cold face, bitter eyes, numb with shock. "That's – that's impossible. One, I don't have my old jacket anymore. Two, I didn't fucking steal anything, man. You got it wrong."

"I don't have it wrong, dude. You're on Candid Camera. You should have smiled."

Icy cold washed through my veins, chilled my blood. Austin and I weren't friends as such, but we'd shared many a shower room, many a coach's yelling how we could do better. His stint in jail obviously turned him into a hardened drug dealer. And drug dealers weren't to be messed with.

Or stolen from.

I stood up. While I made no threatening move, Austin also straightened, and I knew he had a gun on him. "You got it wrong," I said coldly, firmly. "I don't know you, or your business. I didn't steal anything. Get the fuck out of my office before I do a mariachi dance on your face."

Austin smiled. "Just give it back, Brody. No harm, no foul. Nothing else will come of it."

"I don't have what you want, dipshit. You're not listening."

"Oh, I'm listening all right. I saw you on camera. You may not have known you were stealing from me, but you did it. Just give it back, and you'll never see me again."

"Stay away from me, Austin, and you'll be a lot safer. I'm not stupid enough to steal dope from a dealer, you know that. Just think for two seconds, then go find the real thief."

He shook his head slowly. "You're in for a world of hurt, bro. I'll mess you up, then your family. Then I'll go after everyone you ever cared about. Got a dog? I'll hang it from the tree in your front yard."

I advanced on him with my fists clenched. "Come after me, my people, and it's war. You want a fight? I'll give you a good one. You won't escape it unscathed, punk. Whatever you do to me, I'll give it right back. That what you want?"

Austin stood nose to nose with me, not giving an inch. "I want my property. Or you'll lose everything you hold precious. Including your life."

With a tight smile, a baring of his teeth, Austin paced a few steps back. Like Sammy, he saluted me. "Be seeing you, bro."

Eel like, he slid through the door and was gone. Too pissed to think properly, I paced my small office in frustration and no little worry. Okay, I admit it. I was scared. I performed quick mental math. Twenty-two pounds of fentanyl. Easy enough to grab, I guessed. It's street value – in the millions? I'd no idea what a gram of the shit was worth. I wasn't a dealer in shit that killed people.

Austin was. Millions of dollars' worth of merchandise gone, taken, would piss off any dealer.

Any thief caught stealing that volume of supply would earn a Columbian necktie for himself.

I rubbed my throat as I paced. "Dammit. How can I prove I didn't? I can't. Obviously, Austin believes I did. Christ, what a clusterfuck."

***

My truck is too distinctive. Loud, a classic '73, brightly colored. I watched my mirrors the entire way home, expecting a tail, jittery, nervous, my mouth dry. I'd little doubt Austin already knew where I lived, had done his homework before confronting me. A tail was superfluous. Surely he knew I didn't have a dog, yet he threatened my nonexistent mutt, anyway.

Did that mean he didn't know everything?

So I watched my mirrors. I took a long, roundabout way home. I stopped to watch traffic pass, expecting a long, black sedan to drive slowly by in search of me. Hours after I'd normally be home, I pulled, exhausted, into my driveway.

Once inside my house, the door locked, I didn't turn on any lights. I stood beside the entrance, my back to the wall, listening. The air conditioner kicked in, a low comforting hum. I heard the ice cubes drop into their tray in my fridge. A car passed by on the street, headlights cutting through the dusk, to disappear without slowing.

I didn't own any guns. Instead, I carried my weapons within me. At last, believing I stood alone in my house, I ventured away from the door. Still without lights, I inspected every room, every closet, peeked behind the curtains. No intruder waiting to slice my throat and pull my tongue through the slit.

Peering through the window toward Lindsey's house, I noticed no lights on in there, either. Maybe she went to bed early. Though it was just after eight in the evening, I doubted she was in bed. The sun had barely set over the mountains, the last of the sun's rays still gleaming in the western sky.

Maybe she caught the flu.

Dismissing her from my mind, I poured myself a drink, then took it with me to the window. Leaning against the wall, drinking, smelling my own sweat, I watched the street outside. No long, black sedans sat within sight. Lights gleamed in house windows up and down the block. A few dogs barked, and a feral cat trotted across the street under the light of the streetlamp.

"This is stupid," I muttered, shifting my aching feet. "He's bluffing. He knows you didn't steal his kilos. He's laughing his head off right now."

Trying to make myself believe that, I left the window and headed for my bedroom. In there, still without lights, I kicked off my boots, shed my clothes, and took a long hot shower. I emerged twenty minutes later feeling refreshed, hungry, and reassured I was an idiot.

I hit the light switch in the kitchen and laughed to myself at how normal my kitchen appeared. "Dumbass," I muttered. "He believed you but had to save face. He's not after you."

Too hungry to cook, I microwaved a can of chili and ate it while reading a novel on my phone. After tidying my kitchen, I took a fresh drink and my book into my front sitting room and continued reading. The novel held my attention, and while I occasionally looked out the window, I continually returned to it.

Around eleven I began to yawn. Still no activity on the street. House lights had gone out. Lindsey's house remained dark, as silent as my own. I put my empty glass in the dishwasher, then ambled into my room, yawning. I scratched my crotch, then undressed.

I fell asleep not long after crawling into my bed.

***

And woke to the sound of crashing, of glass shattering.

I sat bolt upright, staring, seeing dancing reddish-orange light where there shouldn't be any. Christ, that's a fire.

In my shorts, I bolted from my bed and charged down the hallway. In my living room, a fire blossomed on the carpet, creeping for the curtains, lighting the late darkness. I grabbed a blanket from my couch, beating the flames, driving them back, cursing, swearing, subduing one fire only to see another lick at my feet.

I'd no time to grab my phone and call the fire brigade. Still, I heard sirens through the busted front window, listened to their wailing screams as they approached, growing closer and closer. Outside the window, red and blue strobes flashed, shouts barked orders.

I didn't listen. I beat at the flames, fighting to the last, hearing the fire fighters break my door in and yank me out.

Panting, coughing, I sat at the rear of an ambulance while shivering under a blanket, watching the firemen douse the last of the fire. A Molotov cocktail, the cops said to one another. The arson investigators will take over. Not our problem. They took my statement without much sympathy, then departed.

The neighbors stared, I knew. They gossiped from their porches, speculated from their lawns, and none came forward to ask how I was.

I take that back. One did.

Lindsey.