Here Lies a Wicked Man – Snippet 18

Sunday morning, Booker heard the comforting sounds of Bradley’s new boots clumping around downstairs in the kitchen. Good to his word, the boy had come home early the night before. If he’d been using drugs, Booker saw no sign of it. Lord, he hoped Lauren was wrong. Bradley had always been a sensible kid, despite a streak of stubborn independence.

Facts were stubborn things too, though, and the crack cocaine in Bradley’s bureau hadn’t been put there by the tooth fairy. Maybe he’d been selling it. Not a pretty thought, yet more curable than addiction. Booker couldn’t put off much longer asking the dreaded questions. A shame to jinx a good fishing trip, but maybe the shared activity on the lake this morning would bring the two of them within talking distance.

Downstairs, he found the table set for breakfast and Bradley hunched over the stovetop. Booker sniffed the air, spied a platter piled high with sausages.

“When did you become so handy in the kitchen?”

“Mom hired a maid after you left, and Marina showed me how to do some stuff. Beats having sandwiches every meal.” He expertly flipped three hotcakes onto a plate and handed it to Booker. “There’s orange juice in the fridge.”

“Julia Child, watch out.” Booker set his plate on the table and poured two glasses of juice, reconstituted from a can of frozen concentrate.

“I was beginning to think you forgot we were going fishing. On fishing days, we always set the alarm for four thirty.” Bradley’s tone was light, but his new fishing rod stood in the corner, strung and ready to go, the tackle box beside it.

“In the city, we’d drive an hour or more to a lake. Now we sleep later and walk out the back door.”

Bradley grinned over a stack of hotcakes.

“Guess that does make a difference.” He set the plate on the table, swung a chair around backwards and straddled it. “Remember that time we both ran into the woods to take a leak, then came back to find a stray cat munching on our biggest trout?”

Booker remembered it well. “That skinny stray nearly bit off my thumb.”

He showed Bradley the ragged scar.

“Gross, dad! I didn’t remember it being such a huge deal.”

“Bled all over the camp trying to find the first aid kit. You were busy yelling at me not to hurt the cat.” Losing all interest in the fish they’d caught that day, Bradley begged to take the stray home. Two hundred dollars later, the tabby dubbed “Ribs” had been wormed, inoculated, and settled in as part of the family.

“Ribs is blind in one eye now.” Bradley speared a sausage chunk. “Had a fight last summer with an old Tom from down the street.”

“You should bring him to meet Pup. Lost his eye before I found him. We’d have a matched set.”

As they ate, the boy continued to bring up fishing trips from the past. Booker enjoyed the companionable atmosphere developing. He prayed what he had to do later wouldn’t shatter the mood like a glass gauntlet.

CHAPTER 18

Asking Dad’s advice hadn’t seemed such a huge deal out on the road, sun on his face, wind slithering up his sleeves, the Harley rumbling under him. Wearing his black jeans and boss t-shirt with “Born Wild” airbrushed on the front in hot colors—a skeleton burning rubber, flames flying all around—he’d felt free and focused. His thoughts had been clear.

Now, as his dad held the boat steady and Bradley loaded his new fishing gear, all the words that came together in his head sounding just right had gotten jumbled. At sixteen, he should be able to talk straight with his dad. Soon he’d be a man answering to nobody, so why was everything so hard? Damnesium. He wanted this day to be a good one.

Flat and calm, the lake mirrored trees and houses around the bank, and its stillness quieted Bradley’s flip-flopping nerves. He recalled other times on other lakes, when Dad had seemed the wisest man in the world, knowing answers to questions Bradley hadn’t even thought to ask. Once or twice, Dad dropped into one of his lectures, but mostly they’d just talked together, simple and straight.

He stole a glance at his father, decked out in khaki bush shorts, a vest with about two dozen pockets, and suddenly Bradley was flashing back in time, back to the toughest question of all. He was nine years old, a fourth-grader. Duff Clark, big, mean, new in school, a bully from day one, had started pushing him around at lunch and after school.

Why Duff hated him was like a big whodunnit, but Bradley was maximum sure Duff intended to stomp his guts out before another week passed, so that Sunday, fishing on Lake Travis, he asked Dad to show him how to fight. A big silence, thick like fog, fell all around them.

Then his father said, “You know, son, fighting’s not the best way to settle a quarrel.”

“Yes sir, but…sometimes you have to.”

“You mean, it’s a matter of honor? Standing up for what’s right?”

Bradley had an idea what honor meant, like when Nathan Hale had said, Give me liberty or give me death. “No sir, I don’t think it’s about honor.”

“Then what’s so important about this fight?”

Bradley didn’t want to admit being a coward. “Duff says he wants to ‘mop the floor with my face.’”

“That would tend to put a damper on reasoning, all right. This fellow Duff, did you do anything to make him mad?”

He’d thought about this a lot. “I don’t think so. He’s new. Guess he just hates me.”

They didn’t talk about it again until after the lunch plates were cleaned up, then Bradley felt his dad’s hand on his shoulder, steering him toward a clearing in the trees. “I take it this boy is way bigger than you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And he’s been bragging to all his friends about mopping the floor with your face?”

“Yes, sir.” Some of Duff’s words had been even scarier, but Bradley just nodded.

“And you can’t figure out why he’s acting so mean.”

All the breath Bradley was holding in his chest whooshed out in a huge sigh. “No, I can’t.” He felt better now that Dad understood.

“That’s because you didn’t do anything. Likely as not, this boy singled you out because you represent something he’ll never be— bright, respected by the other students, diligent in making good grades.”

Bradley wasn’t sure about that diligent part.

“See, you’re The Big Test. Duff figures beating you up will impress the other students and focus all their attention and respect on himself.”

“Guess he’s not as dumb as he looks, huh?”

“Bullies can be sly, like old Wile E. Coyote. But remember, it’s Road Runner who always wins.”

Yeah, but Road Runner is fast and smart. “You mean I should…like…take something big and heavy upstairs and wait till Duff’s standing under a window?”

“Hmmm, that might shut him up more permanently than you intend. What you want is to beat him at his own game in front of all his friends.”

“Yeah!”

“Okay. First, you wait until Duff challenges you to a fight. Don’t start it yourself.”

“What if he just jumps me?”

“He won’t do that. He wants to beat his chest awhile, let the word spread so more kids turn out to watch.”

“Oh.” Bradley hadn’t thought of that, but it made sense. Duff never said much when they were alone, just stared at him, grinning his evil grin.

“Meanwhile, think of something to say that will make the boy mad enough to lose his cool.”

Bradley had seen Duff watching one of the fifth-grade girls. “You mean like, ‘Sue Spellman says your face looks like rotted oatmeal’?”

“He likes this girl, Sue?”

“Maybe. He watches her.”

“Then that might do it.”

Bradley hoped Dad was right. Trying to stay out of Duff’s way and not make him mad sure wasn’t working. “If we fight on school grounds, I’ll get in trouble.”

“Not any kind of trouble we can’t handle, and having teachers nearby ensures that not too much can go wrong before someone comes to break it up.”

“But Dad, what about the fighting part? Duff’s arms and fists are like Popeye’s.” Bradley held his hands in a circle as big as a soccer ball.

His father winked and punched him on the arm. “Big brains can beat big fists anytime.”

He explained how to stay out of reach while razzing Duff about Sue Spellman, how to watch Duff’s eyes to see the first punch coming.

“The thing to remember is that bullies never fight fair. Just the fact that he’s picked someone younger and smaller is proof he’ll do whatever it takes to win. Duff expects you to either back down and run or stand there toe-to-toe and slug it out, and since he’s bigger and stronger, Duff has the advantage. Boxing competitions never pit heavyweights against lightweights. Where’s the sport in that? So forget trying to be tougher, just be quicker and smarter.”

That’s when Dad had shown him the best move ever—how to dodge the first punch, swing around behind Duff, grab him by the collar, and kick him behind the knees.

“You won’t hurt him much, but he’ll drop. Anybody will. And while he’s on his knees, off balance, you can push him face down and secure his wrists.”

Bradley tried it on his father. Surprised when it worked, when his dad dropped to his knees like a sack of beans, Bradley pushed him flat, straddled him, then grabbed both wrists, pulled them across his back and leaned on them, shoving his dad’s face hard into the ground.

Suddenly realizing this was his father, not Duff, Bradley jumped off.

“You let me,” he said.

“No way.” Dad spit dirt out of his mouth. “That’s a standard take-down procedure for an officer with an oversized opponent who resists being handcuffed.” Then he’d grinned. “The face in the dirt, well, that’s not exactly standard, but it sure humiliates a bully.”

The following week, Bradley got his chance. Kids were crowded round, elbowing each other, smarting off, expecting to see Bradley get creamed. When Duff fell to his knees, it was like they all sucked in a breath at once, then Bradley straddled Duff and rubbed his face in the mud left from a morning rain.

Some of Bradley’s friends cheered, then other kids started cheering, until a teacher came to break it up. She yanked them both to the principal’s office, Duff staring down at his shoes all the way. Three days suspension for both of them.

Mom was furious.

But Dad told her, “Lauren, some fights simply have to be fought.”

Back at school, Duff still glared when he thought Bradley wasn’t looking, but otherwise ignored him, never meeting his eyes, until finally Duff moved away. Dad had been great back then. Later, he seemed to never have much time for fishing or anything. Then the divorce came.

“You want the prow or the stern, son?” The gear was loaded. Time to shove off.

“I’ll row.” It’d be easier to ask the hard questions if his hands were busy. As they rowed to a curve in the Lake, Bradley mentally rehearsed what he wanted to talk about.

“See those lily pads?” His father pointed to some growth near the bank. “Bass are shy, like to hide among rocks and in the shadows. Early morning like this, they’re active near the top of the water. We’ll likely find a few hiding near the surface, under those lilies, waiting for a choice morsel to swim by.”

“Guess I don’t want a sinker on the line, then.” Bradley rummaged through the weird artificial bait. He’d always used purple night-crawlers, fresh and squirming. The only decision was which one looked the liveliest.

“Afternoons,” Booker said, “bass lie farther down, among tree stumps and weeds growing along the lake bottom. Then your sinker will come in handy.”

Bradley picked out a rubbery frog, bright green with shiny eyes that caught the morning sunlight. Flopping it around in the air, he watched its legs wiggle like they were swimming.

“Good choice,” Booker said. “Now you’re thinking like a fly-fisherman. Next, you want to think like a fish, like a big-mouth bass, wide awake and hungry after the long night, ready to jump at the first tasty-looking mouthful. A bass wouldn’t be surprised to see a frog jump right off that lily pad.”

“You’re saying, land the frog real close to the lilies?” Bradley wasn’t sure his casting skills were up to that kind of precision.

“You could do that. Or you could land it on the lily pad, let it sit there until a bass spots the shadow of it and puckers his mouth up waiting for his feast to jump down for a swim.”

Now Bradley was sure his casting skills weren’t good enough. “I don’t think…”

“Imagine it’s a video game.”

Right. His games required maximum precision. He cast the lure—and overshot the target by two feet. “Damnage!”

The frog floated on the placid lake, shaded by a cottonwood tree.

“That’s fine,” Dad said. “Now crawl it back slowly across the water. If nothing bites, cast again.”

As he reeled in the lure, Bradley realized the activity suited him better than sitting with a pole hung over the side of a boat. It took some concentration, though, which meant he wouldn’t be able to ask his dad what he wanted to ask until they stopped for a break. On the third try, the frog splashed down beside the lily pad, barely missing it, but it was still a miss, Bradley cursing softly as he started reeling—

A huge fish leapt from the water, snatching the bait on its way up then dove back down.

“Whoa!” Bradley stiffened, tightening his grip on the rod.

“Easy there, easy. Hold off until you feel the weight of him before you set the hook.”

Too late. Bradley had already jerked back on the line, the frog pulling free and the bass streaking away. Adrenaline pumping like mad, Bradley couldn’t help smiling.

“Did you see that? That was a big mother.” He reeled the frog in for another cast.

“Big as I’ve seen,” Dad said.

“I should’ve known not to jerk the line so fast.”

“Natural, though, wanting to set the hook soon as bubbles begin churning around.” His father tied an orange cigar-shaped bug to his own line. “Takes practice, learning to hold off.

You’ll get the hang of it.”

Bradley studied the other lures in his box, liking the silver minnow but not sure he wanted to change, since his frog had almost brought him luck. Examining it, he made sure it was still tight. Then he cast again, this time dropping it dead on, plop, right smack on the lily pad, and from a distance it seemed almost real sitting there, looking out into the water.

His father cast the bug-thing into a clump of growth farther out. After it sat a moment, he started twitching it toward him. On the second twitch, a fish mouth big as a coffee cup flew up to grab it, while his dad held the line slack so long Bradley was ready to jump up and reel it in himself, but then the bass turned in the water— way over a foot long— and his dad leaned back, holding the rod high and tight.

“Shove that long-handled net over this way,” he said. “This fella’s playing tug-o’-war.” Bradley toed the net toward the bow, where Dad could reach it. Then he glanced at his own bait, figuring the frog had sat long enough, and popped it into the water, letting it settle. Slowly, he started crawling it home.

Bam! A strike.

This time he stopped himself from jerking the line. He would not lose this one. Relaxing his grip, he waited six seconds of torture, counting it under his breath, until the rod shivered in his hands. Then he hauled back, feeling the tug of the fish as the hook caught hold.

“Got it!” He risked a glance at his dad, found him grinning back, his own catch in arm’s reach.

“Looks like the Kranes are having one heck of a fish fry for lunch.”

Recalling the taste of fresh-caught fish cooked in an iron skillet, Bradley felt his mouth water, his stomach acting like he hadn’t eaten all those pancakes just an hour ago. “You got red sauce and Tater Tots?”

“Has a fish got scales?” Dad slid the net over the water and scooped his bass into it. “Two pounder. The one you hooked looks more like three pounds, maybe close to four.”

Bradley smiled. Bass fishing was optimum.

They spent another half hour in the same spot, Bradley catching a couple more strikes but too quick on the draw, losing them. Dad, not getting another bite, suggested they move into the cove where trees grew thicker, crowding the banks while their roots provided hidey holes for fish. As they rowed, Bradley’s mind danced around the words he’d put together. Sweat slid down his hairline. August heat, he told himself, he was not psyched by what he needed to ask. His friends had plenty to say on the subject, but Bradley needed an opinion from someone with more experience. He’d thought of asking Granddad. Maybe Granddad was a little too experienced.

Bradley’s palms felt damp around the oar. Then his gaze caught the slogan on his t-shirt, Born Wild. “Dad, there’s this girl I’ve been hanging with. Rachel.”

“Hmmmm. The way you say her name, Rachel sounds like someone of influence.”

“I’ve known her a while.”

As they rowed slowly into the shade of a big oak, Bradley slid the rusty iron pot that served as an anchor over the side of the boat. Trees and brush muted the few sounds that drifted from the main road.

“Hanging together can mean a number of things,” Dad said.

Bradley’s tongue felt suddenly too big for his mouth, like he’d caught it on one of his own fishhooks.

“Movies, homework, library, you know, hanging out.” He opened the ice chest, stared inside and pulled out two canned root beers. He tossed one to his dad.

“Rachel have a motorcycle?”

“She rides on mine sometimes, on the back, to the library or the park.”

“Lots of different kind of folks hang out in the park.”

“Yeah, well…Mom just about exploded all over the living room the first time I came home after two a.m. She doesn’t get it that I’m not a kid anymore.” Bradley swigged the cold root beer and wished his heart would stop thumping.

His father opened his tackle box. “I used to like driving my car down to Galveston beach to sit on the dunes at night. At lot of strange kind of folks hung out there, too. A little older than you, of course. Long before I met your mother. Me, couple of my friends, a case of cold beer. Sometimes we’d break out a pint of Wild Turkey.”

Hoping his dad wouldn’t reminisce too long, Bradley chose a new lure, a bunch of wavy yellow ribbons, and wondered absently why fish would want to bite it. He dropped the yellow lure back into its niche in the box.

His dad plucked out a long pink tubular thing.

“Two beers, and the whole world seemed to lift off my shoulders. Three beers plus a slug of whiskey, and… well, let’s just say I didn’t always make it home from those trips in time for school the next morning. That was before we started sampling marijuana.” He paused but continued again before Bradley could jump in. “Your mother told me about the drugs.”

“That’s just great!” Bradley couldn’t stop the anger from jumping up, shooting through his body like an electrical shock. “So now you have her side and you smoked pot at my age, so you think you know everything. Just like Mom, you think one little rock means I’m a crack head.”

“I didn’t say that, son. Your mom’s worried, I’m worried—”

“Since when did you and Mom ever agree on anything?”

“Where you’re concerned, we both tend to get a touch protective.”

“I’m not a kid anymore. I can take care of myself.”

“Bradley, I’ve seen fifty-year-old men who need protecting at times, often from their own bad judgment.”

“Bad judgment? Now you really sound like Mom.” Bradley squeezed the empty root beer can in the middle, crushing it, then smashed it flat on his knee. He wished he could smash it all over again, maybe twenty or thirty times. The conversation wasn’t going at all like he wanted.

Dad poured the last few drops of his own soda into the lake and tossed Bradley the can. Catching it, he found his father studying him, a concerned expression crinkling the skin around his eyes. Bradley tried lamely to smile back as he crushed the second can and dropped the pair into an empty pail.

“Rachel and I have been seeing each other since last semester, and…the drugs are hers.”

Bradley’s throat felt scratchy. His hands had balled up beside his thighs, and this whole thing wasn’t coming out the way he’d practiced.

“Son, it’s normal to experiment, you’re just having fun, then the next time is easier and the next—”

“Are you not listening? Have you already made plans to ship me off to rehab?”

“I didn’t say—”

“Maybe I’ve been smoking so much crack my ears don’t work anymore. You haven’t listened to anything I said. You listened to Mom’s twisted version.”

“This is not about your mother—”

“It’s about you and Mom ganging up on me. You never agree on anything, except now you’re taking her side, like nothing I say matters.”

“Bradley, sit down.” The boat was rocking side to side.

“Granddad might be old, but at least he listens!”

Bradley dove into the lake and swam, pulling the water hard and kicking, wishing he could kick the whole world away from him. He’d wasted his time coming here, thinking he and

Dad might finally be able to talk again like when he was a kid. Thinking maybe he could get some straight answers without being judged.

He liked Rachel so much at times it hurt, and he just wanted—

Ducking underwater, he scissored his legs and kicked with everything he had. Bottom line, he’d do anything for Rachel, had even kept her secret all these weeks, and this shouldn’t be such a huge deal. Yesterday, when he found himself on the highway, Dad had seemed like the answer. The old Dad. The one who listened.

Reaching the bank, he climbed out and looked back at his father rowing after him.

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