Game (18 page)

And then what? You beat the crap out of him? Or he beats the crap out of you? What, exactly, was your plan, you dumbass? Or is this just what you do now—you goad and manipulate people just for the hell of it.

No. Not anymore. People aren’t your playthings. People are real. People matter.

Not cool to go all Billy on him, Jazz. Not cool at all.

And the way he’d treated Connie.
Double not cool.
But he hadn’t known how to talk to her, how to explain his fears. How to explain the role her race played—or had played—in their relationship. They’d been together long enough now that he didn’t think he loved her just because she was black. But he couldn’t in good conscience deny that that had been the original attraction. Her safety, whether real or perceived, had drawn him in. He couldn’t talk to her about sex without talking about his concerns, and he couldn’t talk about his concerns without—

“Hey, man!” Howie said, loping to his side. “Just saw Connie and her pops. That man looked pissed with a capital
P
, and I thought to myself,
That means Jazz must be nearby
. And I was right. So, score for me. I should totally be the one the NYPD calls on for help ’cause I kick it all detective sty-lee.”

“Turns out the NYPD didn’t actually call for me,” Jazz reminded him as they headed to Howie’s car. “Why the hell couldn’t you keep my aunt away from Weathers?”

“Ninja, please! It’s Christmas break. I have family obligations. I couldn’t watch your aunt twenty-four-seven. Not that I would mind.”

Howie’s salacious tone was nothing new, but it triggered a memory for Jazz, of Samantha saying that Howie was “friendly.”

“What did you do while I was gone?” he asked.

“Do? Me? I didn’t do anything while you were gone.”

If Howie had been in an interrogation room, the cops
would have charged him before the first word was out of his mouth. His poker face was nonexistent. He didn’t just look like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar; he looked like he’d been caught sticking his whole head in there.

“Dude! You hit on my aunt!”

“That depends on how you define ‘hit on.’ ”

“You totally hit on my aunt.”

“Was that wrong? Was I not supposed to do that?”

“You should think about what you just said. Think about it, Howie.”

“I’m just not seeing where I went wrong. For an older woman, she’s got a nice body, and she must moisturize like a mofo because her skin is—”

“Howie. She’s my
aunt
.”

“You get to have a super-hottie girlfriend. Why can’t I get a little action?”

“My
aunt
! What are you not getting here?”

“I’m not getting any—”

“Enough!” They were at the car by now. “Take me home so that I can try to scrub the idea of you and my aunt out of my brain.”

“Man, you grew up with a guy who taught you how to carve up the human body and used to show you
Faces of Death
for a bedtime story and you think the idea of me in bed with your aunt is gross?”

Jazz slammed the door. “Yes. And doesn’t that tell you something right there? Drive.”

They had left New York late in the evening, so by the time Howie dropped Jazz off at home, the sun was just beginning to burnish the horizon. Jazz stood on the front porch for a moment as Howie pulled away, staring at the dawning day. A part of him wanted to throw his suitcase in Billy’s old Jeep and just take off. It seemed easier, somehow. Easier than dealing with Connie’s dad, figuring out how to make up for his idiocy at the airport. Easier than dealing with the weirdness that now vibrated like a plucked harp string between him and Connie. Easier than living with Gramma, for sure. And easier than finally being face-to-face with the aunt he’d never known.

The front door opened and Samantha stood there with a coffee mug, dressed in a loose shirt and yoga pants. “Are you coming in or do you like the cold?” she asked.

Jazz shrugged. “I’m coming in.”

Inside, they sat at the kitchen table. The house felt small all of a sudden. It had been Jazz and Gramma for more than four years, ever since Billy went to prison. Now another presence made itself felt.

“She’s asleep,” Samantha said, in answer to his unasked question. “I’ve always been an early riser, though.”

Jazz sipped from the coffee cup she’d handed him and gazed across the table at her.

“So you’re my nephew,” she said sheepishly, offering him a lopsided grin. “Your friend—Howie—he calls you Jazz?”

“Yeah.”

“Which do you prefer? Jasper or Jazz?”

“I guess Jasper. From adults. And, uh, about Howie…”

Samantha made a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a snort. “Yeah, about Howie…”

“He’s totally harmless. He’s more than harmless—he’s completely… I’m just sorry. I didn’t know he would be a jackass around you. He doesn’t mean anything by it. I mean, you should hear the stuff he says to Connie. It’s just how he is. There’s no filter between his mouth and his brain.”

“And his hormones, from the sound of it.”

“Well, yeah. I know it’s weird.”

Samantha nodded. “Speaking of weird… I guess
this
”—she gestured between them—“is as weird for you as it is for me, huh?”

And then they both said, in the same instant: “You look like him.”

They didn’t have to say who “he” was. Jazz had never thought about his resemblance to his father, and he could tell from Samantha’s sudden obsession with studying her coffee mug that she hadn’t thought about hers, either.

Howie was right—Samantha looked younger than her years, which surprised Jazz. He’d’ve figured being Billy Dent’s sister would age her prematurely. But other than some gray, which she’d left uncolored to grace her Billy-colored hair, she looked ten years younger.

Of course, Billy also looked younger than forty-two. Maybe it was a Dent family trait.

Maybe we’re immortals. Maybe every time Billy kills someone, he sucks up their life force. Right, Jazz. And maybe Billy really
is
the god he always claimed to be.

“Look, if this is none of my business,” Samantha said,
“just tell me. And God knows I’m not really in any position to help, but… you’re a kid. And Mom’s basically an invalid. Moneywise, are you two—”

“We’re all right,” Jazz lied. Every month was a struggle. The house was paid for, thank God, but there were still bills—utilities, Gramma’s medications, clothes, food…. There was Gramma’s Social Security and some kind of “death benefit” thing from Grampa, and Billy had actually stashed away some cash that the cops never found, but each month was still like balancing a chainsaw on his forehead. While it was running.

“I never thought I’d be back here,” Samantha said slowly, still staring down into her coffee. “This house. This town. Nothing’s changed, has it? I mean, there’s more crap in the house because she never throws anything away and there’s a Walmart now and the highway’s a little wider, but it’s still the Nod I grew up in. And this house is still…” She looked up at the ceiling, as though something lurked there.

“Still haunted,” Jazz said for her.

“Yeah.”

“He’s like a ghost, isn’t he? Even though he’s still alive?” He realized neither of them had said the name Billy yet. He wondered if she ever would.

Samantha nodded. “I hope you don’t mind—I’ve been sleeping in your room. It used to be mine, and I just couldn’t stand the thought of sleeping in
his
old room.”

There were three bedrooms in the Dent house—Gramma’s, Jazz’s, and a spare. The spare had been Billy’s, growing up.

“That’s okay. I’ll sleep in the spare. How long are you planning on staying?”

“Well, my return flight isn’t for two more days. Do you mind if I stay that long? It would be a pain to change it.”

“No, no, that’s fine,” he said with a swiftness that caught him off guard. More than the additional help with Gramma, he realized he craved the contact with Samantha. A Dent who had managed to escape the gravity of Billy and of Lobo’s Nod. “Stay as long as you want.”

“Those pictures on the wall in your bedroom,” she said hesitantly. “His victims, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I tacked up a sheet over them. Couldn’t sleep otherwise.”

“That’s okay.”

Samantha smiled a sad little smile. “I think this is where I’m supposed to get all parental on you or something. Make sure you’re all right. Ask you why you have those pictures right where you sleep.”

“To remind me,” he told her, thinking of the words—
I HUNT KILLERS
—he’d had tattooed on his body. “I guess it’s morbid, but…”

“Morbid?” A shrug. “Yeah, probably. But I get it. You grew up with him as your dad; I grew up with him as my brother. And with
her
, when she was just as crazy, but not as childlike. And with your grandfather.”

Jazz leaned forward. “Tell me about it,” he said, too intensely. He dialed it back. “I want to know.”

“About growing up here?” She shuddered. “I wouldn’t know where to start. And besides, you’re better off not hearing that crap. Trust me on that. I spent a big chunk of my life
trying to deal with it, trying to understand it. And you know what? It got me nowhere, and it made me miserable. It was only when I started putting it behind me, started purging it, that I started feeling better.”

“Yeah, but you have something to purge in the first place. All I’ve got are fragments.”

“All these FBI guys and shrinks used to come to me. All they wanted to know was ‘What was it like growing up with him?’ ”

The same questions they asked him. The same questions—the same intrusions—he resented so much. Jazz loathed himself for putting Samantha in the exact position he hated occupying. But he couldn’t help it. He had to know. It wasn’t a matter of clinical or academic curiosity; it was self-preservation.

“Please,” he said, and he figured she knew all of Billy’s tricks, so he didn’t even bother trying to manipulate her. “Please.”

She slugged back her coffee and went to the counter for a refill. “Fine,” she relented as she sat back down. “Fine.” Checked her watch. “Mom should be asleep for a while. Fire away.”

Suddenly Jazz didn’t know what to ask. “Did you know?” he blurted out.

“Did I know he was killing all those people? No. I had no idea. I moved out two days after my eighteenth birthday. You don’t know what it was like. Small town. Before the Internet. Very isolated. Your grandfather was a terror. Drop
your fork at the dinner table and the belt would come off. Mom was always scattered. Petrified of blacks, Hispanics, Asians, you name it.”

“How did you end up normal?”

“Normal? Ha. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t know. I never felt like I fit into the family. And I had good friends at school, used to spend as much time as possible at their houses. And I realized early on that the way my family lived wasn’t the way other families lived. And I sort of… it’s like I sectioned off one part of my life from the other, put up a wall there so that I could live in both places when I needed to.”

“Yeah. Me, too. Compartmentalization.”

Samantha grinned. “So, you’ve had some therapy, huh? Good for you. Anyway, moved out at eighteen, left town, never looked back. I tried to stay in touch with Mom. Especially after Dad finally keeled over. I guess I didn’t think she was dangerous. She seemed like the least crazy person in the house. Which is saying something.”

“And when the killing started… you didn’t know?”

She shook her head. “No. No idea. Look, I’d cut myself off, okay? I knew he was getting married. Mom sent me an invitation, but I didn’t respond. I was surprised to get the invite at all. Mom really hated
your
mom.”

“I know. She says that’s where Billy went wrong.”

“Well, I’m here to tell you it’s not true. Never met your mom, but I know it’s not true. The closest I came to coming back was when I heard you were born. I almost booked a ticket then. Honest.”

He didn’t know if he believed it, but he appreciated the sentiment.

“You have to remember,” she went on, “that no one connected the killings. It wasn’t a national story until he was caught. Before that, it was regional, and nothing popped in the news that would have connected for me.”

“What was he like? As a kid?”

Still not using the name.

“I don’t know what he was like with you,” she began, moving her coffee cup in little circles. Jazz’s, neglected, had gone cold. “But living with him, I could tell. Early on, I could tell there was something wrong with him. I didn’t know
how
wrong, obviously, but I could tell he was… off. And for a long time, I thought there was something wrong with
me
because no one else seemed to notice. Not Mom and Dad, not that I’d expect them to. But not my friends or their parents. Not teachers. No one. They all thought he was this… this gregarious, funny kid. But I knew the truth.”

“He was hiding it for them,” Jazz said quietly, “but he let down his guard around you.”

“I guess. I don’t know why. Maybe he thought it was funny, to let one person see the truth…. I don’t know. He pushed things, but he never crossed a line. Not while I was around, at least. I know he killed some pets, some stray cats and dogs. But I could never prove it. And back then, you did that and people just shrugged and called you high-strung. It was different.