Come Unto These Yellow Sands (14 page)

If you decide to face the vampire and outwit him, turn to page 96.

How come asking for advice was never an option in those adventures? Knowing when to ask for advice was a sure sign of maturity and wisdom, right? Not that Swift didn’t know what advice someone—anyone—would give him. He sure as hell knew what advice Max would give at this minute, and it wouldn’t be couched in tactful phrases.

“You’ve got balls coming here!” Hodge snarled.

Swift stood his ground, although it wasn’t easy. He had firsthand knowledge of getting punched in the face, and it was an experience he didn’t want to repeat. His nose ached in anticipation, although maybe that was the cold, his nose being rather more delicate than some people’s.

Through squinting eyes he saw Ariel grab onto Hodge’s arm, saw Denny dart in front of him, planting his hands on Hodge’s broad chest.

“Don’t be stupid, dude,” Denny said. It was like trying to hold back a tank.

“Hodge, wait.” That was Ariel, tugging uselessly on his arm. “Hodge!”

“This is
your
fault.” Hodge’s boyish face was red with anger as he barreled toward Swift.

Swift gathered the rags of his dignity and stepped forward. He had no idea what he could possibly say, so it was a surprise to hear his own reasonable, “Don’t be stupid, Williams. You’re about to make things a lot worse for everyone involved in this mess.”

“Says who?”

Yeah. Well, Hodge wasn’t the brightest candle on the birthday cake. Swift said, “Says the guy who’ll have you arrested for assault, expelled, and therefore kicked off the football team.”

He could see this threat ticking over slowly behind Hodge’s eyes. Football was probably the most important thing in the world to Hodge, so it said something for the depth of his friendship with Tad when he snarled, “I don’t give a shit,” and lunged forward.

Self-preservation overrode dignity. Swift ducked back out of reach as Denny and Ariel grabbed for their companion. “Tad came to me for help!”

“Then you should have helped him.”

“I’m
trying
to.”

“By turning Ariel over to the cops?”

“Have I turned her over to the cops?” Swift replied, knocking Hodge’s clawing hand away. “Do you
see
the cops here? Or do you see me on my own?”

“Will you cool it, dude?” Denny warned Hodge. “You’re going to get us all kicked out.”

“If you’d left it alone, Tad wouldn’t have taken off again.” That was directed at Swift, not Denny. As far as Hodge was concerned there was no one on the doorstep but him and Swift.

Ariel dug her keys out of her backpack. She crammed onto the stoop past Swift and unlocked the front door, pushing it wide. “Come on. We can talk inside. My mom won’t be home till tonight.”

Swift wasn’t sure it was such a great idea to go inside. If these three decided to do something
really
stupid, he’d be in one hell of a mess trying to get away, but standing out on the front porch wasn’t a good idea either.

He followed the girl inside, uncomfortably aware of Hodge breathing—literally—down his neck.

They trooped into the den, the kids divesting themselves of hats, jackets and backpacks.

“What do you mean Tad wouldn’t have taken off again?” Swift asked, turning to Hodge.

“He’s gone,” Ariel said. “I told him last night what you told me, and he took off again.”

Swift swore. “Where was he staying?”

Three stony faces gazed at him.

Swift gazed back with equal disfavor. “Who the hell do you think you are? The Goonies? Your pal is wanted for murder, and you’re all technically accessories. The only way to fix this is for Tad to come in and tell his story. The longer he waits, the worse it is for him
and
for you. Why do you not see this obvious fact?”

“Because it isn’t obvious,” Denny said calmly.

“Really? What’s your take on it?”

“That if Tad gives himself up now the police won’t look any further. They’ll just arrest Tad and throw away the keys.”

“That’s ridiculous. In fact, that’s the opposite of the truth. Everybody is so focused on finding Tad they’re not considering the other possibilities.” Swift had no idea if that was true or not, but it struck him more likely than the other theory.

“That’s what I told them,” Ariel said. “I
told
Tad that.”

Swift looked from one face to the other. “Does Tad know who killed his father? Is he protecting someone?”

They looked so utterly and completely blank they could have been brain-wiped by the Narozl Mind Eaters in CYOA #186.

“No,” Ariel said. The two boys looked at her.

“It was probably a mob hit,” Denny said. “That’s what I think.”

“A mob hit? You mean like organized crime? The mafia?” Swift had never thought about the mob having a presence in artsy little villages like Stone Coast, but apparently it was perfectly possible.

“The
mafia?
” exclaimed Ariel.

Denny looked sheepish but stubborn. “That’s what my old man says. He says the mob is tied into the restaurant business. Corelli was in the restaurant business. And he was Italian.” He shrugged.
Ipso facto?

“I think it was that bitch Nerine,” Hodge said.

Both Ariel and Denny started to speak. Hodge talked over them, scowling fiercely at Swift. “She was having an affair with the mayor.”

“No way.” Denny appeared genuinely shocked at the idea. Swift had noticed that quaint puritanical streak of young adults toward the sexual behaviors of their elders before. It was sort of touching.

Ariel made another of those aborted moves to speak.

“That’s what Tad’s mother says.” Swift watched Ariel. He had the feeling she knew more than she was letting on.

“She was
not
having an affair with Mr. McNeill,” Ariel stated. “I know Tad thought that was true, but my mother works for the mayor’s office, so I know it’s not. Anyway, Nerine’s not the type of person who commits murder.”

“Maybe McNeill killed old man Corelli,” Denny said. “
If
that’s even true.”

Ariel insisted, “It’s
not
true.”

“But that would make more sense, if McNeill wanted to get Corelli out of the way.”

“Am I talking to myself here? It’s not true.”

Hodge said, still challenging Swift, “Has anyone even checked McNeill’s alibi? Or Nerine’s? Or anybody’s but Tad’s?”

“I don’t know.”

This was met with obvious disbelief.

“I
don’t
know,” Swift repeated. “I’m not part of any investigation. Tad brought me into this when he asked for help and I loaned him the keys to my bungalow on Orson Island.
He
came to
me
. And I’m trying to help him.”

“It’s your fault he’s in trouble to start with.”

“How do you work that out?”

“Shut up, Hodge,” Denny muttered.

Hodge shook his head, but he shut up.

Swift said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about queers.”

Swift absorbed it, absorbed the ugly, harsh word. The funny thing was Hodge always seemed like such an easygoing, affable kid. The epithet sounded all the worse because of it. Swift said quietly, “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Leave it
alone
, Hodge,” Ariel warned.

Swift left it alone too. He addressed Ariel. “After I spoke to you yesterday, what happened?”

Her eyes shone with dislike. “I called Tad on his cell. I told him what you told me, that if he didn’t get in touch with you, you’d turn me in to the cops.”

“And?”

“He said he’d call you. That he’d get you to stop.” She looked at Hodge. “But when we went out there today, Tad was gone.”

“When you went out where?”

Ariel looked at Denny. Denny looked at Hodge. Ariel said, “My grandparents have a cottage at Wolfe Neck. Tad was staying there. Until today when he disappeared.”

Swift didn’t like the sound of that. “And you don’t have any idea of where he went?”

She shook her head.

“Is it possible…?” Two thoughts occurred to him. Both were so awful he hated to give voice to them. The kids regarded him uneasily. Swift chose the lesser of two evils. “Is it possible Tad didn’t leave voluntarily?”

It was so quiet he could hear the rumble of the heater on the other side of the paneled wall.

“I’m starting to think anything’s possible,” Ariel said finally.

Proof of his paranoia, Swift thought they might even try to keep him by force while they figured out what to do next, but when he said he was leaving they simply exchanged looks and watched in silence as he walked out of the living room.

He would have to tell Max, of course. But there was no hurry on that. Tad was long gone again, and Swift was not looking forward to facing Max’s ire. He couldn’t avoid it permanently, but a few hours wouldn’t matter now.

He drove home and cooked lambchops with fennel, which was one of Max’s favorite dishes. Of course there was no guarantee Max would be able to drop by, so Swift dutifully ate supper on his own, reading over
Passionate Hearts
and absently blue penciling half of what he read.

At first he was fine, but as the hours slid by without sign of Max, he began to think about the cocaine that had been hidden downstairs. He refused to let himself search the house in case more was stashed somewhere, but he couldn’t get it out of his mind, and his mounting frustration and anger made it impossible to concentrate.

Why was this happening now after six years? Okay, maybe only three years where he could say with any real confidence that he believed his addiction was firmly under control. As firmly controlled as such things could ever be.

But three fucking years and now suddenly it was back on his mind every fucking second.

The unfairness of it made him furious. It scared him.

And the more he worried about it, the more he wanted to comfort himself chemically.

A Cocaine Anonymous group met in Portland. Maybe that was the answer? Maybe returning to a more structured recovery program until he was steady again? It didn’t have to be a step back. The fact that he was frightened he might start using again didn’t automatically mean he was doomed to start using again.

Or maybe…

Swift dug through his desk until he found his old address book with the phone number for Barry Matuszak. Barry had been his sponsor at Cocaine Anonymous. Once he’d known the number by heart. Now he read it digit by digit from the small leather book and dialed.

The last time he’d talked to Barry had been eighteen months ago. Barry had called to say hi and see how he was doing. He’d been like that. Kind and conscientious. A good friend as well as a sponsor. There was a time when Swift had been unable to get through a day without talking to Barry, as helpless as a baby in his addiction recovery, but gradually he’d grown stronger, weaned himself, and eventually…grown away.

As fond as Swift was of Barry, as much as he liked and respected him, as grateful as he was to him, it had been necessary for him to break free in order to feel really well again. He had reached a point where he didn’t want to be reminded that he was an addict, didn’t want to think of himself as broken and ill.

“’Lo.” The voice on the other end was raspy as though Swift had woken Barry. He glanced at the clock. Eight thirty. Barry couldn’t be in bed already. Unless he was sick. There was a lot of flu going around.

“Barry? It’s Swift.”

There was a silence and then Barry cleared his throat. “Swift. How are you?”

“I’m…all right. How are you?”

“Good.” Barry sounded brisker now, more like his old self. “It’s been a while.”

“I know. It’s just…”

“Oh, I understand. Believe me. Still enjoying teaching?”

Barry taught too. Or had. He was retired now. He did volunteer work at Long Creek Youth Development Center.

Swift talked for a while, basically filling in time till he had the nerve to say, “Barry, could we maybe get together and talk? Face to face?”

There was a pause before Barry said harshly, “You’re using again.”

“No,” Swift refuted quickly. Just hearing the words had his stomach in knots. “I’m not. But I’m…it’s on my mind. I can’t seem to shake it.”

“The craving is back.” There was something dreadful and final in the way Barry said it. As though he were offering a terminal diagnosis, pronouncing sentence on Swift.

“It’s stress. I know that’s all it is, but the more I worry about it, the worse it is, and I thought if I could just talk to you for a while…”

“No.”

For a second Swift wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. “Barry, I’m not using. I promise. I’m not asking you to…I just need a little…help.” The last word came out more shakily than he wanted.

“Call the Portland office. I’ve got the number right here.” There was the slide of a desk drawer, a rattling of papers, and Barry began to recite a phone number.

“I don’t want to call the Portland office. I just wanted to talk to y—”

“You can’t be around me right now.” Barry’s voice was less harsh. “I can’t help you. Call the office, Swift. Call Turk. Call him tonight.”

“I’m not using.” Swift wondered if he was going to break down. Why did no one believe him? Were they all so sure he was doomed to relapse?
Was
he doomed?

Barry spoke, his voice shaking. It took a few moments for the words to filter through. “
I’m
using again.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I’m the last person you should be around right now. Call Turk. Call him now.”

“How could—? What happened?”

Dial tone.

Eventually Swift remembered to put the handset down. He stared at the phone. Barry had been drug free for seventeen years. How was it even possible that he would relapse? And if Barry could fall, what the hell chance did Swift have?

He poured himself a glass of water and sat down at the table. His hands were shaking. Maybe if Swift had kept in touch…Barry didn’t have anyone. No kids. He’d been married twice, but both his wives had left him before he’d gotten cleaned up.