Fathers Read online

  ‘Jesus Christ, Will,’ she said when he was finished.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Is that all true?’ she asked. ‘Did you really approach him on a hunch?’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Did you know about this before you left the house today?’ she asked. ‘Did someone tip you off? Like, “Hey, there’s this boy in Roxbury, and he needs someone to intervene.”’

  ‘No,’ Slater said. ‘I just intervened when I saw him.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘Of course I believe you,’ she said. ‘You’ve never lied to me.’

  ‘And I’m not about to start.’

  She sighed shakily. ‘Today of all days…’

  ‘Are you with them?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘She’s in the birthing suite, going through it. It’s happening.’

  Slater squeezed his eyes shut. ‘What do I do?’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘This is the most important moment of King’s life,’ Slater said. ‘And I owe King everything. What if he needs me there?’

  He could practically hear Alexis rolling her eyes. ‘He’ll survive. So will Violetta. Go help the boy, you moron.’

  Slater hesitated, observing his gut reaction to her words, noticing how viscerally they hit him. He asked the obvious question. ‘If every bone in my body is telling me to find an excuse not to, what does that mean?’

  ‘It means it’s important.’

  He knew she was right.

  He said, ‘Can you keep King and Violetta in the dark just for a while? I don’t know how serious this is yet.’

  ‘I could recite what you told me word-for-word to Violetta and she wouldn’t register a word of it right now. But I’ll leave Jason out of the loop.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s a mess, isn’t it?’

  Slater cocked his head to the side, saw Tyrell on his knees staring at the body with the look of a curious scientist observing a lab rat. He was still in shock, detached from reality. It wouldn’t take long for it to come crashing down around him.

  ‘Yeah,’ Slater said. ‘It’s a mess.’

  Then his peripheral vision caught something, a flash of movement through an inch-wide crack in the floral curtains pulled shut across one of the barred windows.

  A low black station wagon had nosed all the way up to the rear bumper of his Porsche. Angrily. Aggressively. The driver and passenger had the same skin tone as Marcus, who was splayed on the kitchen floor. The pair first fixed their furious gazes on the luxury 4WD, then on the shack. It was as if they were staring straight through the gap in the curtains, but Slater knew it was impossible. When he’d been sitting out front, he hadn’t been able to see anything.

  Still, their unblinking stares were unnerving.

  ‘Looks like it just got messier,’ he muttered into the phone. ‘I’ll call you back when this is sorted.’

  She said, ‘I love you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, exhaling hard. ‘I needed that.’

  ‘I can tell.’

  He put the phone away, and for the first time noticed how poorly the windows were barred. The damage to the panes was fresh, paint chips still scattered on the carpet below. It seemed Marcus had done a rush job wedging the security bars into place, installing them with what meagre tools he had available. Then other details became apparent. There was a reinforced bar attached to the wreckage of the door that Slater had shouldered off its hinges. It was in the unlocked position, which was why he’d been able to break through. Marcus must have rotated it up when he’d seen his son through the keyhole. The bar was also recently installed, evidenced by the wood splinters and paint flecks still dusted over the bolts.

  Slater said, ‘Tyrell.’

  ‘Mmm?’ the boy replied.

  He sounded deflated, like a pin had popped his soul.

  ‘Looks like your dad was barricading himself in,’ Slater said. ‘Does he have enemies?’

  Tyrell closed his eyes. ‘Not anymore, man.’

  The atmosphere was too tense for it to be awkward. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Tyrell muttered. ‘He got enemies. What you think? Look where we live.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean he had people looking to kill him.’

  ‘Yeah it does,’ Tyrell said. ‘He does the same thing Uncle J does. They used to work together before they got angry at each other and split.’

  Avoiding the open doorway, Slater watched through the crack in the curtains as the two men in the station wagon started getting jumpy. They were about to get out, maybe gear up, come charging through that doorway.

  Because they thought someone in the Porsche had beaten them to the jump.

  Did they see me go in? Slater wondered. They were clearly on a stakeout. Had they missed everything that had already happened? Slater hadn’t seen the car before dropping Tyrell off, and he’d circled the block to scope it. He knew he was competent at scouting for sentries. He used to rely on that particular talent to keep himself alive on a daily basis.

  The pair got more and more jittery. Started talking faster to each other, rocking back and forth in their faded seats like they were hopped up on something serious.

  Slater figured it was best not to wait for them to come storming in.

  He said, ‘Stay here, Tyrell,’ as he strode out the doorway, walking fast toward the car with his empty hands raised high over his head.

  22

  King could tell something was off as soon as Alexis stepped back into the suite.

  She was a good actress, far better than most of the civilian population, but it so happened that he’d seen men and women lie in every kind of situation imaginable. Seen them lie with their lives on the line, with everything at stake. People were generally better at it when it was that important, and King could often still see through the ruse. Alexis was sloppier, trying too hard to appear nonchalant.

  King kissed Violetta on the forehead and whispered, ‘You’ve got this.’

  He handed her another ice chip and she sucked it between her lips, her eyes squeezed shut. The contractions were almost back-to-back now, lurching from one to the next. She was seated on the very edge of the bed, turning inward to deal with the cramps, unaware of her surroundings.

  King stepped away from her for a brief spell and walked right up to Alexis. ‘What is it?’

  She went wide-eyed, and it would have convinced anyone else, but not King. ‘Huh?’

  ‘You talked to Slater again?’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ she said. ‘Nothing to report. He’s taking the boy home, then he’ll be here.’

  King stared at her just long enough to make her uncomfortable. ‘You’re not good at this.’

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘he made me promise not to tell you. Don’t make me break that. Call him if you want. Find out for yourself. But don’t ask me to do something I really don’t want to do.’

  King only had to think about it for a second or two. Then he realised there was only one thing he needed to know. ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘Physically, yes. Emotionally, I think he’s going through some shit. Something happened. I can’t say…’

  King gave her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. ‘It’s fine. As long as he’s not about to die. Everything else we can deal with later.’

  He turned to head back to Violetta, but he still heard Alexis mutter, ‘Who knows what’s about to happen?’

  23

  The intention wasn’t to convince them he was someone else.

  It was simply to close the gap.

  Slater put a puppy-dog look of innocence on his face, like he was swimming out of his depth, which meant when he got to the car they’d try to have their way with him, but it also meant they wouldn’t cut him down with bullets in the middle of the street. Slater knew his wide-eyed, empty-handed demeanour didn’t gel with his intimidating frame, but he minimised that by hunching over and looking sheepish
.

  It turned out the sentries were dumber than he thought. He made it all the way to the rolled-down driver’s window before the guy put an elbow on the sill and reached for what could only be a gun at his hip.

  Slater said, ‘Whoa, brother…’

  ‘I’m not your brother,’ the guy spat. ‘Back the fuck up.’

  ‘Huh?’ Slater said.

  By now he was feet from the sill, and he could draw his Glock in a flash and shove it through the open window frame before either the driver or passenger could react.

  But he didn’t, because he could do that whenever he wanted, and he needed answers first.

  He pulled up on the weedy sidewalk and lowered his hands until they framed either side of his head, his elbows bent at right angles. He kept his palms facing the sentries.

  They must have thought he was a weakling, but then he’d strode straight for them. Contradictions. Slater loved them. There was room to exploit all the hesitation that came with that fuzzy confusion.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ the driver said. ‘Back up.’

  Slater shrugged, like he was socially inept and couldn’t interpret standard emotions like anger and frustration. ‘I’m far enough back, aren’t I? I just want to talk.’

  The driver hadn’t pulled his gun yet, but he was close.

  ‘What were you doing in there?’ he asked.

  Well, not exactly asked. More like he demanded an answer.

  Slater said, ‘Marcus is my homie. From back in the day. I wasn’t trying to tread on anyone’s toes.’

  ‘Who was that kid that went in?’

  They don’t know what Marcus’ son looks like, Slater thought. They’re not friends of his.

  Which changed things.

  Slater remembered the barred windows, the reinforced door. Everything started adding up. He understood that these men were about five seconds from pulling their guns, getting out of the car, forcing their way into the shack.

  Where they’d find Tyrell.

  Slater inched a half-step forward and it exposed the centre console to his line of sight. There was a big Kalashnikov AK-47 rifle resting on top of the console, barrel facing the dashboard, right out there in the open. Easy access for either man. They could pick it up, rest the forend on the windowsill, and spray until the curved mag was empty.

  Something in the driver’s eyes twitched like he was close to doing just that. Obviously the shack was important, and if Slater made a dumb mistake and got cut down by gunfire it would leave Tyrell defenceless. Slater had told the boy to stay put. He wouldn’t leave the house until these two came storming in with murderous intentions.

  No.

  That wouldn’t cut it.

  Slater let his gaze drift over the passenger’s shoulder, all the way through the car and out the opposite window, and he said, ‘Who’s behind you?’

  A trick so old it was grossly clichéd, but it’s all about the delivery. Treat the question like a joke and it sounds like a joke. Put fear in your eyes like Slater did, and anyone will bite.

  The driver turned his head to look past the passenger, and Slater pulled his Glock with vicious speed and shot the guy through the side of the skull. The passenger copped most of the contents of the exit wound in a thick spray of blood and brains, which blinded him so he couldn’t locate the AK-47 with his outstretched hands.

  Slater walked right up to the car, leant down through the open window, and shot the passenger in the forehead as he was rubbing the stinging crimson out of his eyes.

  Slater straightened up, looked up and down the street for any witnesses, but there was nothing. People would investigate the noise of the unsuppressed shots, though, so he turned to march straight back into the house and collect Tyrell.

  He didn’t need to.

  The boy was out front, revolver in hand, standing knock-kneed on the front porch. His skinny legs were shaking. The gun was aimed at the wooden boards under his feet, but he was holding it out in front like it was unreliable, like it could go off at any moment.

  He’d used it once today, and there was no way he wanted to use it again.

  But he would have, if he’d had to. He’d watched Slater kill two more men, and he hadn’t run back inside.

  Slater started to understand just what sort of life Tyrell had lived in twelve short years.

  It trumped even his own turbulent childhood.

  He marched up until he was feet from the porch, but he stopped short, worried that Tyrell might decide to try using the gun on him. And that would put him in an impossible situation, because there was no chance in hell he was shooting the boy.

  So did he simply close his eyes and meet his fate head-on?

  Or did he run right now, before a word was spoken?

  Instead he stood his ground and said, ‘You probably hate me. I’ve come into your life and done nothing but destroy it, tear it to pieces. I get that. But there’ll be cops here in minutes and I need to leave. You can come with me if you want. Or you can stay here, let the system deal with you. I honestly don’t know which option is worse. But I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do.’

  Tyrell stepped down off the porch, handed the revolver to Slater, and looked up at him. ‘Nice speech, man, but you didn’t need to make it.’

  Slater said, ‘Come on.’

  They ran to the Porsche, slipped in, and Slater hit the accelerator at the same time as he thumbed the keyless “Push Start” button.

  This time they were out of the neighbourhood before they even had the chance to hear sirens.

  24

  Rebecca declared that Violetta was in true, active labour. ‘You’re four inches dilated now.’

  King wasn’t paying attention to the process anymore. He was focused entirely on the woman he loved. He crouched right by her, right next to the bed, and gripped her hand to let her know he was there. To let her know that he always would be. Now there was nothing external that could pull him away from her. Whatever Slater was doing was his business. This was his woman, his child, and it was all happening now. She’d only spent four hours in labour, which was better than upwards of twenty-four, or even longer.

  Time to push.

  Another midwife joined Rebecca at the foot of the bed and they gently offered Violetta instructions. He kept a tight grip on her hand, feeling the sweat leech from her palm, and she gripped back harder against his calloused fingers every time she pushed.

  Then it all ramped up.

  There was more pain, more pressure, and King thought he’d seen Violetta deal with every situation imaginable, but nothing rivalled this. He’d seen her shot. He’d even patched her up in the field, made sure she wouldn’t bleed out. This was a different sort of determination. Its primality stirred something within him, and when she gave a final heave and Rebecca’s face lit up with a smile King felt relief so total it made him rock back on his heels and bring a hand to his mouth, composing himself. He noticed Rebecca’s forearms straining with a new weight, and all that emotion welled up in him and hammered on a heart he’d thought had turned cold and dead long ago.

  It brought him relief he hadn’t thought he’d needed.

  All the killing and fighting, all the chaos and carnage of his life, all the depravity and soullessness he’d seen…

  …and he was still human.

  Rebecca gently lifted the baby up and placed him on Violetta’s chest.

  Violetta let out a shuddering breath.

  She didn’t cry, only squeezed her eyes shut after getting a first look at the boy, feeling his soft warmth on her breast. The blindness had to accentuate the rest of her senses, make the whole experience more powerful.

  King had seen a lot in his life. None of it had left him awestruck like this.

  He’d taken so much life.

  He’d never created it.

  He lowered his chin to her shoulder and looked his son in the eyes. The boy blinked, curled his impossibly small fingers tight. His skin was rosy pink, his tiny tufts of b
lack hair wet and matted.

  King kept his voice low, almost a whisper. ‘Hey, Junior.’

  He was aware enough to recognise something had changed. In the past, when he’d fought tooth and nail to stay alive, it was to protect his own skin. There were limits to that, restrictions on how far you could go. To protect his child, his son, he’d tackle inhuman feats. He’d do anything.

  And if anyone jeopardised that…

  He thought he’d gone to war for his country with noble intentions, but that was only a bullshit justification. There’d been moments of selflessness — whenever Violetta had fallen into harm’s way, for instance — but the bond with someone you created, someone you brought into this world, was unrivalled.

  He’d go to the ends of the earth for this boy.

  Violetta finally opened her eyes.

  ‘I wanted to feel his breathing,’ she explained. Her gaze lingered on her baby. ‘Isn’t he beautiful?’

  King said, ‘He is.’

  ‘Jason King Jr.,’ she whispered, stroking his damp hair. She turned her head to face King. ‘Imagine what he’ll be capable of.’

  King kissed her forehead. ‘Your genes. Not mine.’

  An exhausted smirk crossed her face. ‘That’s bullshit and you know it.’

  ‘Our genes, then.’

  ‘That’s better. That works.’

  The baby squirmed softly against her bosom. She held him close, and it was like Alexis and Rebecca and the other midwife didn’t exist. The universe was King and Violetta and Junior, and that was it.

  Violetta lowered her voice as she muttered in King’s ear. ‘You think he’ll follow your path?’

  ‘If it’s my genes,’ King whispered, ‘I don’t think he’ll have a choice.’

  Junior’s small eyes closed and he slowly lowered his hand onto Violetta’s chest.

  His fingers were still curled tight.

  They formed a fist.

  That’s my boy, King thought. Born ready.

  25

  For a couple of minutes there was nothing but stunned silence in the vehicle.