Page 40 of Small Town Beast 2: Saverin's Duet

The detective said, “An hour ago, I received a call from the East Side. Somebody found a naked African American boy on a roof.”

“So?” said Saverin. He ground the dead cigarette under his shoe.

“Well, the kid says his name is Amari Weaver. He fits the profile. We have him at the station.”

You got to be fucking kidding me.“I’ll be there,” Saverin said quickly. “Just hold him there, detective. I’m about five minutes away from you right now. Tell him– tell him he’s gonna see his Ma soon. Tell him it’s gonna be alright.”

“You have my Bible?” the detective barked, shooting a black arrow into Saverin’s plans. “Saverin, you better not eventhinkof showing up here without my fuckin’ Bible. If you so much as set foot in the parking lot without my Bible, I will shoot your biggity ass so high you’ll hit the moon. Get me?No Bible, no kid!Period! You have twenty-four hours or I’m putting that boy on the streets.”

“I’ll get you the damned Bible, alright? Don’t hurt the kid.”

“I got him in blankets and we gave him some soup. He’s barely talking– only said his name. Hurry up over here ‘cause this ain’t no goddamned daycare.”

“Tell the kid his Mama’s coming.”

“I ain’t telling himshit.” Detective Skipper hung up.

“Did I hear that right?” Crash squinted, his sharp hearing catching half of the conversation from several feet away. “Somebody found the kid? What was that about a Bible?”

“I have to get back to Florin,” Saverin said roughly.

“What?”

“The detective found Amari Weaver. But he wants to make a trade. So I need to get back to Florin for— let’s just get in the car and I’ll tell you.”

“That’s a piece of pudding,” said Crash furiously. “What are we supposed to do, drag the old lady with us?”

“That’s exactly what,” said Saverin, getting the Buick’s keys in hand. “And I’m about to smoke dirt, so buckle up. I might need you to drive back and get the kiddo, but I ain’t sure.”

“To hell with all Baileys and McCalls,” Crash said, opening the door for Tanya’s bemused mother. “After this, remind me to kick your ass.”

EIGHT

ABSALOM

The prisoner’s resemblance to Lorrie was striking, but it could have just been a figment of his mind. Tanya Weaver was a short and well-curved woman, with such a quantity of hair it covered her entire face from view.

“Did she say anything?” Absalom asked Hiram from the other side of the door. Through the stained-glass panel he could see the prisoner huddled on the loveseat, her face buried in her knees.

“Nope,” said Hiram. “Still says she’s got no idea where Bailey is.” The big redhead adjusted himself in his jeans. “I could make her talk. Could barely stop the boys from all fucking her. I still might. Like how we almost gangbanged your colored slut.”

Absalom checked his battered Casio. It was almost three o’ clock. “Nobody is to touch the girl. She’s our leverage with Bailey. Understand?” he said mildly.

“Yeah. Sure,” sneered Hiram. “You got a soft spot for them, don’t you? The darkie girls.”

Absalom’s uncle Hogs had a pig farm down deep in the valley. About fifty Red Wattles and twenty Hampshires. One day soon he’d bring Hiram there for a visit. In a body bag.

He sank into the great oak chair, carved two centuries ago buy the very first Green Tree for the second or third McCall in the Florin lineage. The carvings had worn dull on the arms from centuries of McCall leaders stroking them in deep contemplation. Duke had occupied that chair for Absalom’s entire life until Roman took over. And now it belonged to Absalom. From this chair Duke, and then his son Roman, had directed the Harvest, held business meetings, collected debts, and listened to the many woes of mountain folk seeking retribution for some slight or another their neighbor had given them.

His eyes fell on the map again, and the strange symbols Roman had written in spidery ink over certain places. People said that Roman McCall dabbled in black magic. That he could be in many places at the same time. That he used animals to listen in on conversations. That he could make men do his bloody bidding while under trance and spell, and they would wake with no recollection of it. Until that morning Absalom naturally held those rumors in the category of idiotic fiction. But they’d raided Roman’s house, the same house his spies had watched like a hawk all night long, and found it empty.

No Roman. No wife. No kids.

It raised a man’s small-hairs, no doubt about it. By all appearances the house might have been unoccupied for weeks. Every room was barren but for the furniture. Roman had kids, but their toys were gone, and their books. Quietly Absalom was thankful for that. He had never had any intention of hurting Roman’s wife and kids, and so he took the risk of slipping his intentions through certain channels so Roman could get them to safety if he wished. And to give the man his dues, Roman was no fool, and likely knew already what was coming. But what Absalom didn’t understand was how the big man himself, seenon this very hill just yesterday, could have vanished into thin air under heavy watch.

Tunnels, then. He had to have used tunnels under the house to escape. There had always been rumors of such and knowing Roman he didn’t doubt it. However, a search of the cellar turned up only some very old wine and even older whiskey, which Absalom directed (by unpopular demand) to be left where it was found.

Finally Absalom had to concede that Roman had slipped away into the night like a coward. Well, putting his own pride aside, a bloodless victory was a great victory still.

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