Chasing China White, Allan Leverone [feel good books to read txt] 📗

“You can disagree with how he handled aspects of your addiction,” Greg continued. “I know he certainly never understood it. But my point is that there’s no doubt what caused a man who never cried to start acting like a teenage girl who can’t get a prom date. He saw what drug use had done to his son and it broke his heart. And he never forgave himself for kicking you out, either, even though he went to his grave believing he had no other choice at that point.”

Derek licked his lips and finally blinked. He still said nothing.

“I’m not saying he was Gandhi,” Greg said, speaking softly now. “But Dad never hated you, Derek. He hated what heroin had done to you, he hated what your life had become, but he never hated you. He loved you. It’s just that the only way he could show it was to drive you away.”

Derek wasn’t listening, Greg could tell. His eyes had taken on a faraway look and he was mumbling something under his breath. The words were soft and hard to understand, and to Greg it sounded like his brother was talking about China. “Chasing off to China,” or something like that.

“Dude…what?” Greg shook his head in confusion. “You need to focus right now. That’s your plan? To run off to China? Get real.”

Derek fixed him with a sorrowful gaze, almost as if he’d forgotten Greg was there. “I didn’t say I wanted to run off to China. I said I’m tired. Tired of chasing China White. I’m so fucking tired.”

“China White? Who’s she, a stripper or something? You need to get your head in the game, Derek. You’ve got much bigger problems than some hooker or dancer or whatever she is.”

“China White is not a person. It’s heroin, Greg. I said I’m tired of chasing the next fix, of feeding an addiction that’s never going to be satisfied. Monkey on my back, my ass. It’s a fucking two thousand pound gorilla.”

“You can get clean. You can do it.”

The phone had stopped ringing during their conversation but now it started up again, clanging on the wall like a bad dream. Greg noticed that sometime during their conversation Derek’s constant shaking had stopped. He seemed to stand taller, more erect, still ravaged by heroin withdrawal but somehow dignified, or at least resigned. When he walked to the phone he did so with his head up and his shoulders square, rather than slumped as they had been since Greg first walked into the kitchen this morning.

He picked up the receiver and rather than barking into it as he had done previously, he spoke to the hostage negotiator softly but clearly. Firmly.

What he said surprised Greg.

“I want to give myself up.”

He listened for a long time, occasionally grunting his concurrence with some term the cop was insisting on. Eventually he said, “Yes, I understand. That’s all fine. I’m coming out in just a minute.”

He hung up the phone and Greg said, “You’re doing the right thing, Buddy.”

Derek ignored him and said, “They want me to go out alone. You’re supposed to stay in here until it’s finished.”

That’s an odd way to phrase it. Derek seemed suddenly completely at ease. Something about his utter sense of calm bothered Greg, particularly after his brother had been so adamant about avoiding prison. But Greg wasn’t about to rock the boat now that he was getting what he’d been pushing for, so he set his unease aside and said, “What changed your mind?”

Derek shrugged. “You said it yourself. What choice do I have?”

He took a couple of steps toward the door and then reversed course. He reached out and wrapped his arms around Greg, squeezing him tightly and whispering into his ear, “I apologize for involving you in this. Tell Brenna I’m sorry.”

“You can tell her yourself,” Greg said as Derek released his grip and again turned toward the door.

“I’ll be sure to do that.” He slipped the cop’s handgun into the waist of his filthy jeans at the small of his back and began walking away.

“Wait a second,” Greg said. “Should you be carrying that with you? There’s no way the cops want you coming out armed. Didn’t they tell you to leave the gun here?”

No answer. Derek picked up his walking pace and as he reached a point halfway to the diner’s front door everything clicked into place in Greg’s head. He couldn’t believe it had taken this long.

“NO!” Greg shouted. He broke into a sprint just as Derek did the same. Derek had a significant head start and a short distance to travel, but Greg was healthy and strong and Derek was neither. Greg would catch him, and when he did he would pull his brother back behind the counter and toss him to the floor, gun or no gun. He would scream at him or reason with him or kick his ass or do something.

He was almost there, reaching for Derek’s shoulder, when he slipped in the blood of the injured cop. His right foot slid and he lost his balance and dropped to the floor, rolling and springing to his feet immediately, knowing all the while he’d missed his chance and was now too late.

Derek yanked open the glass door as he was reaching behind his back. He ran through the entrance and into the parking lot, gun held high in his right hand, screaming something Greg could not make out.

Then his voice was lost in the roar of dozens of weapons firing virtually in sync. Greg watched in horror as his little brother danced like a marionette, his forward progress stopped by the bullets slamming into his emaciated figure. He stayed upright for what seemed an absurdly long time before dropping to the ground and lying still, the gun falling next to him.

Greg heard himself screaming when the din of the police weapons faded