Liars table, p.17
Liars' Table, page 17
I coughed and muttered, “I feel you.”
27
“Hey, buddy, you okay?”
A hand slid under my back and lifted me to a sitting position. I leaned against my kitchen cabinets, though that confused me because I didn’t remember coming inside. I tried to open my eyes to make sense of what I was seeing and feeling but slammed them shut as the light pounded into my brain. The floor wobbled underneath me. The memory of some danger flickered in my mind, but I couldn’t quite place it. “Is Belle okay?”
“She’s fine. Was lying in the floor with you when I got here.”
I tried to reach out to stroke her fur, but my hand didn’t seem to be fully under control. I could see it, sense it, but I couldn’t make it move the way I wanted. It flailed about at the end of my arm until a raspy tongue licked my fingers. Knowing she was fine lifted a weight of fear off me. The tension melted from my muscles and allowed me to focus on me.
I took a deep breath and steadied my nerves. With trepidation, I peeled my eyes open again until a sliver of daylight slid in. It didn’t burn into my head the way it had a moment earlier. The spinning of the room slowed. My vision focused on the larger man squatted in front of me. I didn’t understand how, but C.J. had known I was in trouble and came for me.
When I tried to speak my gratitude, nothing came out. My throat burned. My mouth was parched. Saliva had abandoned me. Nothing allowed me to swallow and soothe the pain. I coughed, winced, and choked out the words, “I must have passed out or something.”
The concerned look on his face amplified. “Passed out? More like knocked out. Someone kicked in your door. Was it a burglar? Did you get a look at them? Do you know who it was?”
“Not a burglar. Not exactly.” I raised a shaking hand and wiped my forehead. With some relief, I looked at it and realized it was wet with sweat, not blood.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m calling an ambulance.” C.J. crossed the room to the telephone on the wall, an old-fashioned rotary that made Wyatt chuckle.
Cell phones worked better than they used to in the rural parts of the county. I carried one, but I couldn’t give up my old landline. Storms knocked out power, and weather disrupted cell towers, but the phone line always worked. If the nursing home needed to get through in the middle of the night, I needed to be reachable.
Why buy a cheap, Chinese-made piece of plastic to replace my rotary phone just because it had buttons? It might be faster to punch numbers rather than wait on a rotary to spin back into position, but you couldn’t destroy that old Ma Bell hunk of machinery. It would be working long after I was gone.
C.J. lifted the handset, stuck a finger into the nine on the dial and spun. Upon his release, the receiver clicked as it returned to position, a sound reminding me of the crinkling of the cigarette pack. The tattooed man’s visit flooded back into my mind. So did his threat and the looming deadline.
I couldn’t go to the hospital. They would keep me all day—probably overnight. I wouldn’t get the money back. I would miss the meeting at Coogan’s Cove. Wyatt would be here in the house all alone when the tattooed man came back.
“Hang up.”
With his hand on the dial to spin the last one, C.J. turned with an incredulous look on his face. “Why?”
“I don’t need an ambulance. I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not. I don’t know what happened here, but you need a doc. Your head’s busted open and needs stitches. You’ve got blood on the back of your shirt. You can try to tell me all day that you fell, but I don’t buy it. You need to go to the hospital, and we need to call the sheriff.”
“I didn’t fall.” I shook my head and instantly regretted it. Pain flared up along my neck. I rested my face in my hands. The room grayed. I fought to stay conscious. “I was pushed.”
“Pushed? So it was a burglar. Did you recognize him?”
“Wasn’t a burglar. It was the tattooed man.”
C.J. looked at the phone on the wall. I could see his internal debate, the way his eyes flickered back and forth and his lips moved. “The who?”
“From yesterday. The guy we took the car from.”
I could only pray he would hang up since I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t even stand up. Reluctantly, he lowered the handset into the cradle. He rested his hand on the phone and stood still. I held my breath until he pushed away from the wall and crouched beside me.
“He was in the house?”
Careful not to move too fast, I nodded. My stomach flopped. I closed my eyes and swallowed back the bile that rose in my throat, begging myself not to vomit again. When I thought I could continue, I reopened my eyes. C.J.’s worried face loomed. “Waiting for me. He shoved me against the car. My head hit. Then he pushed me to the ground. He left me lying in the driveway.”
C.J. looked out the screen door at my car parked in the drive. “How did you get inside?”
“I… I don’t remember. I guess I crawled.”
He chewed his lip in thought. “The man assaulted you. He needs to be arrested. Tell me why I shouldn’t call the sheriff.”
“We can’t. He wants his money back. Tonight. If I don’t meet him with it, he’s going to come back.”
“All the more reason to get the law involved. Once he’s arrested, it’s over.”
I shook my head and instantly regretted it. My vision clouded over as pain pulsed around my skull. “It wasn’t his money. Belongs to some guy called Rudy the Roach.”
“What a stupid name.”
“Feel free to tell him that. You’ll get the chance because the sheriff can’t arrest the roach monster because he’s got nothing on him. He will come looking for his money even if the tattooed man is locked up.”
He sat back on his haunches. The only sound in the room was Belle’s panting as C.J. studied the wood planks on the floor. “How did he find you?”
“Noah. The guy who stole the car, the guy who called Wyatt, he kept the registration. Gave him the address. And then the tattooed man killed Noah. That’s the people we’re dealing with.”
C.J. stood and crossed to the kitchen sink. He soaked a rag under the tap and dabbed the back of my head. I caught glimpses of the bright-red blood soaking into the cloth as he cleaned the wound as best he could, tsking as he went. When he was done, I gingerly touched the knot and winced. I withdrew my hand and stared at the spots of blood on my fingertips. It hurt, but my mind was clearing.
“How did you know to come out here?”
He leaned against the wall. “After you drove off this morning, I started thinking about you giving that money to Brawley. I wanted you to know I understood why you did it. That I wasn’t mad or nothing. I called, both your cell and your home, and when you didn’t answer…” He shrugged as his voice faded away.
We’d talked about it before when we were in a melancholy mood—the horror of dying alone. Maybe that was why we all gathered around that Liars’ Table every morning, a sort of a senior citizen roll call to ensure we had all made it through the night. If someone didn’t show, we would make light of it, but someone would inevitably swing by their house. Just to visit, of course, at least officially. If they needed help, calls would be made. If they were already beyond help, different calls would be made. It was the least we could do for each other.
But I wasn’t dead yet. Right now, I wanted to get off the floor. I motioned with my arm, and C.J. helped me to my feet and over to the kitchen table. He got me settled in a chair and poured a glass of ice water. When he joined me at the table, I wrapped my hand around his wrist and said, “Thanks.”
He dismissed my gratitude with a flip of his wrist and asked, “What’s the plan?”
“Only thing I can think of is to go see Preacher Brawley and see if he can get the money back from the sheriff. What else can we do?”
He scratched the side of his head. “Maybe your grandson has got a better idea.”
I didn’t want Wyatt involved. He had worked too hard to extract himself from that life. He didn’t need to be forced back into it. The tattooed man, and whoever this Roach was, were exactly what he needed to avoid. “Let’s keep him out of it.”
“Too late. He’s on his way.”
“But—”
“When you didn’t answer, I panicked. I called him to see if you were with him. When he said no, I said I’d come out here and check. He said he would meet me.”
“Call him back. Tell him it’s nothing. He shouldn’t miss work.”
“You and Shelby are all the family that boy has. I couldn’t stop him if I tried.”
I wiped my hand across my mouth. My mind, already fuzzy from the assault, raced for a story that would convince Wyatt to go back to work and stay out of this mess. “Let’s just tell him I fell. Maybe something I ate made me weak. I’ll promise to schedule a doctor’s appointment. You’re here, so no need for him to stay.”
C.J. gestured to the door. “How do you explain that? Or the blood on your shirt? He’s going to take one look at you and probably carry you over his shoulder to the hospital.”
I struggled for a plausible explanation that might work, but the sound of gravel crunching under tires floated through the screen door. C.J. looked outside and confirmed it was too late. “He’s here.”
28
A car door slammed. Boots clomped up the front steps and across the porch. The screen door squeaked open. Wyatt stepped into the shadows of the kitchen. His eyes locked onto mine. I tried to sit up straight in the kitchen chair, my best effort to convince him everything was fine.
“Grandpa—”
“I’m fine.”
He crossed the room, chattering with relief. “Thank God. When you didn’t answer your phone, and C.J. said he couldn’t reach you, I had the worst thoughts. Pictured you face down in the yard with a heart attack or something.”
“I’m fine, really. I must’ve been out in the yard when you called the home phone. I left my cell in the bathroom, never heard it ring. Sorry to scare you like that. Go back to work.”
He looked over at the sink and the wet washcloth stained with my blood. His eyes grew wide, and he walked around me, examining my wounds. He gently touched the back of my head and stared at the tacky blood on the tips of his fingers. The color drained out of his face. His voice was low and serious. “What happened?”
I focused on getting him out of the house so C.J. and I could figure out a solution, so I tried to wave him off. “Wasn’t feeling real good. Maybe it was something I ate. I passed out and must’ve hit my head. Not a big deal.”
“Passing out isn’t a big deal?”
That sounded weak. “Maybe it’s a little bit of a big deal, but I’ll call the doctor and make an appointment. Have him run all those blasted tests those vampires like to do.”
He looked at C.J. for answers, but my friend was doing his best to find something on the ceiling to study. “What did you hit your head on?”
I stammered with an answer. “I don’t know. Don’t remember. Maybe the counter.”
Wyatt’s eyes flicked around the room. In his hurry to make sure I was okay, he hadn’t taken in the details, but now he saw everything. His mouth opened into a little o as his gaze settled on the crack running up the middle of the front door. The thud of his boots on the kitchen floor echoed in my head as he crossed the room and ran his hand across the shattered door frame at the latch. He dragged the toe of his work boots through the pieces of wood scattered about the kitchen floor. The sunlight highlighted the clear outline of a boot print beside the doorknob, the tread sharp against the faded white paint. He traced it with his finger. His face clouded with fury as he asked, “Did you fall against the door too? Are you going to tell me you had a shoe on your head, and it made this print?”
I exchanged a glance with C.J., hoping for inspiration for a better story, but nothing came from him. I opened my mouth, closed it, and then shrugged.
Wyatt covered the gap between us and leaned over the kitchen table until his nose was only inches from mine, like a parent scolding a wayward child. “Out with it. What really happened?” When I started to answer, he issued a stern warning. “Don’t even try one of your cockamamie stories on me. No more lies. I want the truth. Who was it?”
What choice did I have? I let the whole story flow. About searching the car at the rest area and finding the money. About debating with myself what the right thing to do was. About dropping the money in the church’s donation box. About the sheriff telling us about the reverend turning the money over to the police. About coming home and the confrontation with the tattooed man. About my plan to get the money back and deliver it at Coogan’s Cove.
I left out only one detail, about giving the money for supplies at the nursing home. The rest of the tale sounded innocent. Stupid, but innocent. If I could get the money back from Bobby, then neither Wyatt nor C.J. would ever have to know about that part. Bobby had said he would go slow to not attract attention, so he probably still had the money locked up there in the shop. I would get it back when I went to the nursing home to have dinner with Shelby and add it to the pile.
When I finished with my tale, I leaned back in my chair and listened to the silence in the kitchen. C.J. remained as still as a statue. Wyatt stared at the ceiling, what he normally did when he was thinking through things. When he lowered his gaze, he asked, “And Noah?”
I shook my head.
Wyatt clenched his hand into a fist and squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he said, “It’s not safe for you to go alone tonight.”
My gut clenched. This was why I hadn’t wanted to include Wyatt in the first place. “No. I don’t want you involved.”
“Too late. I already am. I was the second I met Noah at the truck stop.”
C.J.’s chair squeaked as he shifted his weight. “So we call the sheriff, right?”
Wyatt looked down at his hands. “I don’t think we should. These guys are dangerous. If we don’t give them the money, they won’t stop looking. They won’t just go away. And they won’t be bothered by some small-town sheriff. That would just buy us some time before they killed us.”
An eyebrow shot up on C.J.’s face. “I thought you said drug dealers didn’t really kill anybody. That was just in the movies.”
Wyatt sighed and raised his head. “I said the dealers, the guys on the street, don’t usually kill their customers. Debts there are so small, it’s not worth it.” Wyatt pointed at the shattered door. “But this ain’t a couple hundred dollars. A hundred grand is killing money.”
I rested my head in my hands. “He’ll kill me if I don’t give it back.”
“Not just you.” Wyatt leaned across the table. “Everybody who helped you. He’ll kill C.J. He’ll kill me. He might just kill the preacher and the sheriff.”
“The preacher?” Numbness crept through my body. “You really think the tattooed man would kill that many people?”
“I don’t know him.” Wyatt turned his head to look out the screen door. “But Rudy the Roach would. And he’d sleep like a baby after doing it.”
I touched Wyatt’s hand with a trembling finger. “You know who that is?”
Wyatt’s tongue ran along his lips. “Never met him, but I sure as hell heard of him. That’s enough.”
29
“Purvis Webb and Cody Joe Duncan. Now there’s two faces I haven’t seen inside this church in way too long.” The imposing figure of Reverend Jacob Brawley leaned back in his chair and cupped his hands behind his head. The tall, solid man with close-cropped black hair sprinkled with gray wore a jet-black suit, a crisp white shirt, and a bright-red tie. His voice boomed in the office, just a hint of the power it had from the pulpit on Sunday mornings.
The office was simple. A desk, a couple of mismatched chairs for visitors, and a modest chair for him. A pair of degrees hung slightly askew on one of the few sections of exposed wall. The rest of the room was taken up by a variety of bookcases of different sizes and colors filled to overflowing with books. I scanned the titles and noticed they were primarily scholarly religious texts, though some were in languages I didn’t recognize. Maybe some were Latin, though I certainly wouldn’t have any way of knowing for sure.
When C.J. had called the church earlier to ask for a meeting, the minister was doing rounds at the hospital and wasn’t expected back for the day. Only after begging the secretary had we secured an appointment, but not until four in the afternoon, leaving us a narrow window for success.
C.J. and Wyatt asked me repeatedly what I planned to say, how I planned to convince Brawley to get the money back, but my head hurt too much to talk. I lay in the hammock with an ice pack as the two of them nervously paced the yard. Belle wasn’t happy with any of us for disturbing her afternoon nap as we waited for the time to pass.
We arrived at the church a few minutes before four, but the minister was running late. We waited for a nerve-wracking half hour but were finally face-to-face with the preacher. We didn’t have time for small talk, so I jumped straight to the issue at hand. “I need to confess.”
“Confession is good for the soul, my son.”
“More than that, Preacher.” I took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “The money in your donation box last night—I’m the one who dropped that off.”
The minister’s chair squeaked as he leaned forward. “Is that right?”
“Yes, sir, and I need it back.”
The reverend’s piercing blue eyes bored through me, searching my face for the truth. He leaned forward, placed his elbows on the broad desk, and folded his hands together as if in prayer. He touched one finger to his lips and spoke quietly. “You can imagine the wonder I have about how you came into such an impressive sum of money.” He snapped his fingers. “Now how much was it?”
