Burn Scars, Eddie Generous [read full novel txt] 📗

must’ve. The light coming through the window had changed, also, he was certain Detective Landon Lawrence hadn’t been on the brown chair when he’d come home.

“Jim McManus overdosed on coke and chemical cleaner. Linda Siegenthaler’s dead surrounded by cash. Cary Watson has a hole in his head.”

“Yeah,” Rusty said.

“I sent out the APB on Dwayne, but my guess, he won’t surface. You want to know why I think that?”

“Nope. But I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“I found a CD in my computer. I’m surprised you figured it out when those bozo kids didn’t recognize him. Cary wasn’t the same after that night. He used to be fun, after the fire he was like a kid locked in a confessional.”

Rusty lifted his head. The room was dim, gloomy, but every shape had an obvious form, particularly the big man in the chair. And what was this about Cary?

“So what, there was some scheme planned out, but you went to visit your father—I checked—and you let him fill you in on the people I ran with back then. Then you understood why Cary treated you how he did. Or did he confess? Poor sonofabitch was always feeling so guilty. Only reason he didn’t flip was he had his own kids and wife to worry about.”

Rusty sat all the way up and leaned against the wall, still not fitting the pieces together, but starting to suss out the pattern they’d make.

“So what, you tried to get the money and even things with Cary in one go?” Landon said. His voice was a deep, deep baritone when he kept it low. It was almost as if he knew the rules of the house.

“Wait. What the hell are you talking about?” Rusty finally said.

“Come on, you can tell me. You’d already be dead if it wasn’t for Christine. She’ll figure you out eventually, trash just like your father, and then I’ll close that loose end.”

“Shut up, wait. Cary was the man with you?”

“You’re not a bad actor.”

Rusty shook his head. “Linda shot Cary. She had this plan that had Cary killing Dwayne for insurance money, but if that didn’t work, there was this heist thing. We emptied the warehouse, Dwayne was supposed to kill me and Cary would…Cary was with you when you murdered my family?”

Landon pop-smacked his lips, kissing the dark air above Rusty. “Hmm. That actually makes more sense. You’re just an idiot who got lucky. Might be tough to skirt a murder charge if Dwayne shows up.” He leaned closer. Light coming through the window banked off the wet teeth behind his snarl.

“That was Christine, with your gun. The bullet in Cary will match too.”

Landon stood then, looming, but different. “You brought my daughter into this.” Not a question.

“No. She brought herself. You might want to go home, probably there’s parts of Linda in her car. Have to take care of that sooner than later.”

“She killed Linda?”

“Yeah-huh. Cary killed Jim. Linda killed Cary. Christine killed Dwayne and Linda. All I did was help sink a body in some river Cary knew about and help load a truck. Turns out I was supposed to be a patsy.”

“You little prick…Christine,” he said and stomped away, slamming the door behind him. His footfalls echoed up the short stairs and he slammed the outer door behind him.

“Rusty! Rusty! We know you’re home! Why was Detective Lawrence here? Was this about that McManus man? Rusty!” The landlady was frantic. “Rusty!”

“Shut the fuck up, you nosey old cunt!”

 25

The sizzle from the fryers was constant and constantly stinking.

“Dammit,” Rusty said and tossed his apron into the laundry bin at the back. He should’ve been out of there ten minutes ago. He clocked out with his employee code and pushed through the employee door. He broke past three customers in the parking lot and hopped into his car. He had to change before getting to the school, no way he’d go in stinking of French fry grease, even if it was a split shift and he did have to go back in later.

Passing dozens of storefronts and company trucks, Rusty counted off all the places he’d rather work than McDonald’s, but wishes and turds, they both belonged in the toilet.

—

The gymnasium had nine rows of eleven desks, spaced a few feet apart. Students from three classes sat, sprinkled among the rows to avoid the temptation to ask a mate for an answer—meaning the closest people weren’t even taking the same tests. The huge clock on the wall rolled silent seconds as pencils and pens scratched at multiple choice Scantron sheets, photocopied fill-in-the-blanks papers, and essay pages. A gym teacher named Mr. Jackson stood at the front of the setup and a French teacher named Mademoiselle Burke held vigil at the back.

“Twelve math, you have half an hour left. Ten geography and nine civics, you have two minutes,” Mr. Jackson said, his voice booming and bouncing off the painted cinderblock walls and the waxy basketball court floor of the huge space.

Sweat rolled down Rusty’s nose. This should be his final exam, his final day as the oldest student in that unwelcoming hole. He’d dreamed of failure the night before and then of his first day back the next Fall. Christine poked fun at the terror. He’d have to score a thirty percent to drop to forty-nine, and even then, Christine guessed any one of his teachers, even the self-righteous Mrs. Betts, would bump up anything close to passing, if simply not to see him again. Probably she was right, and still…

He flipped to the final page and found it blank. The tension that had settled in his shoulders tightened further and he fought the urge to go back through and second-guess his answers. Either he was a fool or he was fool who’d finally graduated high school. He stood, the