Never Tell Them, N.L. Hinkens [unputdownable books txt] 📗

“You punched Tom square in the jaw,” Buck said, his voice dripping scorn. “Any way you skin it, that’s a fight in these parts.”

Ray gave a resigned shrug. ”Okay, so we fought. But, I only remember bits and pieces. I can’t even remember what we were fighting about. You probably know more than me. It sounds like Tom’s already told you the whole story.”

Buck moved his jaw slowly side-to-side. ”He didn’t have to. I saw it for myself.”

Ray frowned, racking his brain for any memory of Buck being there with them. “I don’t remember that. If you were there, why didn’t you try and stop us?”

“It was all over by the time I walked in. Tom was out cold on the floor.”

Ray twisted his lips in an apologetic grimace. “I’ve no idea why I lost my cool like that. I really regret punching him. That’s why I’m here. I need to make amends. Tom’s all I’ve got left—well, other than my son.”

Buck threw him a sharp look, a glint of morbid fascination in his eyes. “Where is your son?”

Ray blinked, surprised by the question. ”He’s with my neighbor.”

Buck turned abruptly and walked over to the rocking chair. He sank down in it with a distracted air, staring off into a corner of the cabin.

“Do you happen to know where Tom is?” Ray prodded. “If he went into town, there’s not much point in me waiting around—“

“He didn’t,” Buck cut in.

“Okay,” Ray said, trying to curb his frustration at the man’s increasingly clipped tone. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

Buck scowled. ”He’s not coming back, Ray. You killed him.”

21

Ray sat still as a statue on the storage bench staring across at Buck’s face which was suddenly swimming in and out of focus against the log walls of the cabin. He tried to speak, but his throat felt like it was on fire. His mind raced through a maze of confusion, as he grasped in vain to make sense of Buck’s words. He must be hallucinating—that was the only explanation. Had he passed out after the strenuous hike up here? Or was he dreaming about the cabin again? Was Buck even real? He scrunched his eyes shut and blinked them open, sucking in a jagged breath at the sight of the living, breathing, bearded man opposite him.

Buck leaned forward in his chair. “You okay?” he asked gruffly.

“No,” Ray choked out. “Of course I’m not okay. Why did you say that … about my brother?”

Buck skewered him with a look that was not to be trifled with. “It’s true, Ray. You slugged him and he fell backward and cracked his head on that very bench you’re sitting on. It happened right as I was walking in the door.” He got to his feet and trudged over to where Ray was seated.

Ray shrank back as Buck’s shadow fell over him, half-afraid the man was about to take a swing at him. Instead, he pointed to a dark stain on the other end of the bench. “That’s his blood you’re looking at right there.”

Ray stared in horror at the rust-colored patch on the wood. No! His heart felt like it was seizing up in his chest as he struggled to breathe. It couldn’t be true. Tom couldn’t be dead. He’d only just found him after all these years. Whatever they had been fighting about, they could have worked it out. Even if Tom had something to do with Katie Lambert’s disappearance, Ray would have been there for him. Got him the best lawyers, cooperated as a witness in his defense, made sure the mitigating circumstances of their abusive childhood were taken into consideration.

He buried his head in his hands, choking back sobs. He wasn’t sure what he was crying for anymore. A tangled ball of emotion that went all the way back to his childhood. His life had started out a mess and now it had come full circle. If what Buck was saying was true, he was a murderer. He had confessed to Sonia the nagging fear that he might have killed his father. Never in a million years had he suspected the deep, darker truth—that he’d killed the brother he loved. He shook his head slowly, trying to clear his thoughts. Something didn’t make sense. If Buck had witnessed the murder, why had he let him walk away a free man? He straightened up and wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands, studying Buck’s deadpan expression. “Why didn’t you turn me in?”

”It’s complicated. I handled it.”

Ray furrowed his brow. “All you had to do was go into town and make an anonymous call to the police. They would have picked me up within the hour.”

Buck grunted. “Folks on this mountain have their own way of dealing with things. We don’t like cops sniffing around. Next thing you know they’re asking about gun permits and dog licenses, and every other dumb thing they can harass us with.”

Ray fixed his gaze on the blood stain on the bench, contemplating Buck’s reasoning. He was right. If he’d made an anonymous call, the cabin would instantly have become a crime scene, cadaver dogs combing the mountain, every recluse in a shack questioned as a potential witness. So how exactly had Buck handled it, as he’d put it?

“Where … where’s Tom’s body?” Ray rasped. The words seem to echo around the space, the log walls closing in on him like prison bars. Like it or not, this was his prison now. He’d spilled his brother’s blood here. A part of them both would live on here forever.

Buck blew out a heavy breath. ”It’s been taken care of.”

“What does that mean?” Ray demanded, his voice rising.

“I buried him.”

“Where?” Ray cried out, leaping to his feet. ”Take me there, now! I want to see where you buried my brother.”

“Not gonna happen,” Buck said, with an adamant shake of his head. ”We can’t be wearing a path to his grave and risk someone