Fourteen
Five Years Ago
“Ah, Fisher,” Collier said. “No one decorates a yard quite like him.”
“He’s an artist, really,” Mercy agreed. “I’m thinking of asking him to do my apartment.”
“Hmm,” Collier murmured in agreement. “It’d be magical.”
They stood outside the four-foot chain link fence surrounding Joe Fisher’s tumbledown double-wide trailer. It had been white fifteen years ago; the salmon trim strip along the roof was still visible, unfortunately. The windows were covered from the inside with beach towels and the whole back half of the trailer was rotting away to mushy splinters. It was the yard, though – the dirt yard with its collection of rusted car husks – that really captured the eye. In his spare time, when he wasn’t selling drugs of every variety to minors, Fisher’s favorite hobby was welding together what he called “junk art” out of old car parts, spoons, and coat hangers, decorated with chips of glued on glass. They were gnarled, ghastly shapes that resembled nothing and brought to mind creatures from Silent Hill.
Fisher’s one running truck sat parked in the driveway, as opposed to the dirt, and smoke curled out of one of the vents, from the stove most like.
“He must be cooking,” Collier said as they approached the front door and climbed its rickety porch. “Think he’ll have enough to share?”
“With the entire graduating class of the high school,” Mercy said with a snort.
Collier knocked and the sound of bare feet thumping across the linoleum echoed through the door. Mercy watched the peephole, seeing nothing, knowing Fisher was peering at them through it. He waved.
“Hiya, Joe. We need to have a little chat.”
Silence.
“A friendly chat,” Collier amended. He jerked a thumb toward Mercy. “I swear I’ll keep him on a leash.”
The feet retreated.
“He’ll go out the back,” Collier said.
“Oh, Fisher, you shouldn’ta done that,” Mercy called. And then kicked in the door.
The cheap molding gave way and the panel flew open with the sound of splintered wood and the overpowering smell of breakfast burning. The trailer was one long run of filth and dumpster-quality furniture, a bedroom designated by an accordion curtain off to the right. Mercy had been inside the place before; he was well acquainted with the cigarette burns, the moldering food under the couch, the hoarded stacks of old magazines and newspapers, and the supplies for the junk art that were heaped in the corners in rusted piles.
Fisher was at the kitchen sink and, obviously having pulled the dirty plates from it (they were in a messy jumble on the counter), was in the process of pouring a bag of colored tablets down the drain, aiding his efforts with jabs of a wooden spoon. He glanced over his shoulder as they came for him, his eyes bloodshot, his features rat-like, his wispy mustache twitching.
“Joe, man,” Mercy said, “this is so not setting us off on the right foot today.”
Abandoning his task, Fisher yelped and made a leap toward the back door.
Mercy caught him by the back of his wifebeater and slammed him with one fast yank, dropping him onto his back on the scuzzy linoleum, knocking all the breath from him. Mercy put a boot in the middle of his bony chest, pinning him in place.
Collier went to the sink and lifted the half-full baggie, rattling the tablets inside. “How’d you know we were here about these?” he asked Fisher. The sun caught the sergeant-at-arms patch on his chest in a rather poetic way.
Fisher wet his lips and twitched like a trapped bug.
“And the truth would be great,” Collier said. “We already caught you with them – what good does lying do you now?”
“I dunno,” Mercy said, putting a little more pressure on the frail sternum beneath his boot sole. “Too many people tell the truth, and I’ll be out of a job. If he lies” – a wide smile for Fisher’s benefit – “then I get to go to work.”
“Jesus,” Fisher breathed. “No. No, man, I won’t lie.”
Collier folded his arms expectantly. “What are these?”
Fisher gathered a series of shallow breaths. He was high as shit, and having trouble putting all the answers together, though the sweat on his brow proved he was trying like mad. “It’s – it’s a designer drug. The kids call it Wild Bill. It’s like a fucking rodeo in your bloodstream.”
Collier pulled one of the tablets out, a bright pink one, and showed Mercy the sugar stamp on its surface: the silhouette of a bucking bronc and cowboy. “Your design?” he asked.
“No. No way, man. I don’t mess with that kinda shit. I just stick to the recipe. Cook what you know, right?”
“Then where’d you get it?”
“Dude, I can’t breathe.”
Mercy pressed harder. “The story, Joe.”
He took a wheezing breath. “I got a phone call,” he said through his teeth. “ ‘Bout two weeks ago. Guy said he had something new that was selling like crazy; said he’d split the profits with me fifty-fifty if I’d move it for him.
“Clearly, you did.”
“I haven’t even sold a quarter of it! I stopped, man. I sold a few bags, and then I let my buddy try it – Tate, remember him?”
“All too vividly,” Collier said.
“He took one, just one, and put it on his tongue like you’re supposed to do. And he died! He puked and passed out and shook all over. It was awful.” Tears flooded his eyes. “My best friend, and he died right over there on the floor.”
“I share your grief,” Collier deadpanned. “What’d you do with old Tate? Roll his corpse under the Ford in the yard?”
“I gave him a proper funeral!” Anger reddened his face. “I drove him up the hill and buried him under that tree he always liked.”
Collier sighed. “You’re just lucky we don’t feel like reporting unsanctioned burials today.” He tossed the baggie on the floor beside Fisher’s head and gave Mercy a little nod.
Mercy withdrew his foot and Fisher sat up, gasping, clutching at his chest. Mercy’s boot had left mud on the front of his wifebeater.
“You heard about the Stephens kid, then?” Collier asked.
“Yeah.” Fisher drew his knees up and hugged them. “I went by the school last week – I’m probably on the fucking security cameras – and went up to him at lunch, told him I needed the stuff back, that it wasn’t safe. He threw fifty bucks at me and said not to bother him at school. He called me ‘fucking hillbilly trash,’ ” he said, indignant.
“What is it?” Mercy asked. “Your source didn’t tell you?”
“He said it was like E. A party drug. A new one. I just thought it would, you know, make everything all pretty and shiny. I had no idea…”
“Drug dealer with a heart of gold,” Mercy said. “It moves me, really it does.”
Fisher glared up at him. “I never meant for anybody to die.”
“Right. ‘Cause meth never killed anybody.”
“Not like this! This wasn’t an OD. Tate took one.
“I tried to take it back to the guy who cooked it, but the house was empty, all cleaned out, like he’d moved, and I couldn’t get in touch with him. It was like he didn’t even want the money for what he gave me. Who hands over that big a bag of shit and doesn’t even want to collect?”
Mercy had a bad feeling the collection would happen at some point in the future, and it would involve Fisher’s life. “So you were going to destroy it.”
“Yeah.” Fisher propped his chin on his knees, miserable. “I didn’t want you guys to know.”
Collier massaged the bridge of his nose. “Fish, this violates so many parts of our agreement. Namely, selling inside Knoxville. Selling to kids.”
“I know,” Fisher groaned. “I know. I’m sorry, man. I’m so sorry.”
“So why do it?” Mercy asked.
“The guy, he said the rich kids would want it. He said they’d eat it up like candy. I dunno why I did it, man. He sat down with me, and he poured me this fancy drink, and we talked, just man-to-man, you know? And he made it sound like a good idea. Like the best idea. I dunno,” he repeated. “I dunno.”
Mercy shared a look with Collier.
Collier said, “This guy got a name?”
Fisher shook his head. “He said to call him William, but I know that ain’t right.”
Collier nodded and retrieved a notepad and pen from the inside pocket of his cut, looking very official. He handed them to Fisher. “We need the address of this house you mentioned.”
Mercy collected the tablets, plucking them up in his too-big fingertips and depositing them all back in the baggie. “This is all of it?”
Fisher nodded. “I don’t ever want to see that shit again.”
“We’ll be in touch,” Collier said, almost gently. “And Fisher, I mean it, no selling in the city limits.” He ruffled his thin, greasy hair.
“Yes, sir.”
“You may wanna put some duct tape or something on that doorjamb,” Mercy said on their way out. “I kinda broke the fuck out of it.”
When they were back breathing clean air and walking to their parked bikes, Collier said, “I hate to be paranoid–”
“But someone’s trying to make the Dogs look bad in this town.”
“Yeah.”
Ava was setting out fresh flats of yellow mums with Mina in the long covered aisles of Green Hills when Leah arrived.
“Isn’t that your friend?” Mina asked in her low, sweet voice.
Ava glanced up and saw Leah coming toward her at a bouncy power walk, her sleek black hair streaked with platinum, her turquoise romper topped with a satin bomber jacket. Her face was pinched with concern.
“Girl! Oh my God. Why didn’t you call me?” Leah asked as she closed the distance between them and pulled Ava into a fast hug.
For some reason, the sight of her worried best friend made Ava want to cry. She hadn’t told Leah she was going out with Carter, hadn’t so much as texted her about everything that had occurred.
“It was all anyone could talk about in homeroom,” Leah said. “The story going around is that you poisoned Mason and beat Ainsley across the face with a folding chair pro-wrestler-style.”
“I–” Ava started.
“I didn’t believe it,” Leah went on. “Of course I didn’t believe it.” She stepped back and propped her tiny hands on her hips. “But what the hell went on last night? And why didn’t you call me?”
Mina, pretty and petite and all swallowed up by her Green Hills polo with its Manager label stitched on the chest, excused herself and drifted a tactful distance away, giving them some privacy.
Ava pulled off her printed garden gloves and let them dangle from one limp arm, staring down at the scuffed toes of her work boots. “I knew you’d tell me I was an idiot for going out with Carter. And I knew you’d be right, and for some reason, I was dead set on being stupid.”
Leah didn’t respond right away. She folded her arms. “I might not have said that. You don’t know.”
Ava lifted her brows to say really?
“You should’ve at least let me have a chance.” She was hurt, Ava realized. “What good’s a best friend if I can’t tell you you’re out of your mind?”
Ava hugged her again, on impulse. “I’m sorry,” she said as she squeezed her narrow shoulders. “I really am stupid. So stupid.”
“It’s more fun if I get to be the one to say it,” Leah said, and they laughed.
“Come on.” Ava set her gloves aside. “I’ve been here since seven. I’m due a lunch break.”
They snagged Snapples from the mini fridge under the register and went out front, to sit on a concrete bench beneath the birch tree, amid the concrete statuary and birdbaths. It was cool, but cloudless, the sky a bright blue bowl arcing overhead. The breeze tickled the leaves and set them to dancing.
In the lacy shade, Ava recounted all that had happened since yesterday’s tutoring session with Carter, leaving out nothing, rehashing all her teenage angst over Mercy, citing it as the reason for her momentary insanity the night before.
“Ten days,” Leah said when she was done. “Damn. And the whole school’s wanted Ainsley to catch a fist in the face.” She dropped her voice. “And we all wanted Mason to bite the big one, too.”
“Don’t let anyone hear you say that,” Ava said, smiling in spite of the situation. “They’ll start believing I really tried to kill him.”
Leah dismissed her with a shrug, the spark in her eyes a tell that she’d already changed mental tracks. “So let’s talk about the real story, here.” She grinned hugely. “You want to do the nasty with the actual most terrifying biker in this joint. I’m sooo impressed with you right now.”
“Don’t say it like that,” Ava groaned.
“But it is like that! Look, we’ll ask your mom.”
Maggie’s black Caddy was sliding into a parking spot just across from them, Maggie’s mane of rich blonde hair swirling in the breeze as she exited the car.
“We will not,” Ava said, shaking her head for emphasis. “I know you think she’s a ‘cool mom,’ but no one is that cool.”
Leah lifted her brows.
“Mercy is thirty. That’s bad math for any mother, even mine.”
Then she closed her lips because Maggie was bearing down on them.
“You playing hookie?” she asked Leah with a grin.
Leah beamed back at her. “No, ma’am. I’m doing that senior intern program, so my lunch period I get to spend working in my dad’s shop.” She pulled a face. “If anyone asks, I’m on a run for more coffee filters and swizzle sticks.”
“Gotcha.” Maggie sat on the end of the bench, beside Ava, her expression becoming concerned. “Do you feel alright?” She reached up to press the back of her hand to Ava’s forehead. “You look…”
“Like shit?”
“Tired and pale,” Maggie continued. “Why are you working today, anyway? I called this morning and told Mina you were going to sleep in.”
Ava shrugged. “I didn’t have anything better to do.”
Maggie pressed her lips together, nostrils flaring with temper. “Well, now you do. I went by the school – those bastards – and after I got done chewing their asses out, I picked up your work for the next week.”
Ava cringed, imagining the scene in the front office. “Am I suspended for another ten days now?”
“No.” Maggie flicked at her shoulder with her fingertips, barely making contact. “But they understand exactly how angry I am.”
“I don’t think anyone ever wonders that,” Ava said under her breath.
“Mrs. Teague,” Leah said, “can you come talk to my biology teacher and convince him to give me an A on my last test?”
Maggie snorted. “See?” she told Ava. “Someone appreciates me.”
Ava felt Leah’s elbow in her ribs on her other side, and could imagine her friend’s message: Tell your mom about Mercy.
But she couldn’t. Because there wasn’t anything to tell.