Satan's Revenge (16 page)

He regards me impatiently, as though he doesn’t understand what I don’t get.

“I’m going to live with you.” He says it simply, naturally, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

I feel panic begin to rise in my throat. I had always told him that I was going to move out of the Ralstons’ place when I was sixteen, but that was before. Now I just need to focus on getting my diploma so I can join the Corps when I graduate.

“Marcus…I’m not moving out. I’m going to stay with the Ralstons until I graduate next year.”

“No, no. That’s not what you said.”

“I know, I know it’s not. I’m sorry, I should…we should have talked more on the phone.” Fuck, I’ve been so excited about my new plans that I haven’t been checking in on him enough.

“Well, you have to move out. You have to.” He plants his feet resolutely on the ground, staring me down.

“Marcus, if I move out, and you move in with me…how will we eat? I’d have to drop out of high school to get a job to support us, and then that would be it. That would be my whole life.” He has to see reason, but I can see him starting to give in to his emotions; soon it will be impossible to reach him.

“What about my life? What about me? You said…you always said…” his lower lip starts to tremble and he struggles against his tears, already trying to be a man at twelve. No, thirteen. He’s thirteen now. I forgot his birthday.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But…I need, I need to make a life for myself, I can’t…” I reach for his narrow shoulder.

“Can’t
what
?” he screams at me, pushing me away. “Can’t take care of me? Can’t be my older brother? You’re it! You’re the only one I have!”

“Marcus, I’m sorry, but I…I have plans. I’m going to join the Marines…”

“You’re leaving?” he asks, his voice now small and childlike.

“Not for a little while…I have to graduate first. You have to have a high school diploma.”

He pauses, thinking. “I’ll stay here, with the Ralstons.”

“Marcus…they barely tolerate having me stay here. Our case worker tried to get them to put us together before, and they wouldn’t. You know that.”

“Then…then I’ll stay somewhere here…like an apartment, or…”

He’s fumbling now, and he knows it. I look at his pale face, his brow furrowing as he tries to make the impossible work.

“You have to go back, Marcus. I’m sorry, but you have to.”

“I can’t! I can’t go back!”

“You have to. I know you don’t like it there, but…”

“No! No, you don’t understand!”

“What? What? Tell me…is Alan hitting you?” I ask gently.

“No…no….it’s the money,” he whispers, looking away.

“What money?” He doesn’t answer. “Marcus…where did you get the money to get here?” I ask, putting together what he’s talking about. “Marcus,
where did you get the money
?”

“I’ve…I’ve been taking it. From their wallets when they weren’t looking. Little amounts, so they wouldn’t notice. But then the bus company raised their prices, and I didn’t want to wait any longer. So I took a picture frame. This fancy silver one that they have on the table next to the sofa, with them and their real kids in it. And I sold it to this guy who I always see on the corner by school. He gave me fifty dollars for it. That was this morning.”

“Marcus…”

“So I can’t go back. You have to help me.”

I sink my head into my hands. He’s backing me into a corner. If I call our caseworker…after what he did, there’s no way he gets put back in that house. He’s getting older now, too, and the system doesn’t look at him as a scared little kid anymore. They look at him as a juvenile delinquent, who stole from his foster family.

“Marcus, if I did get my own place…I mean, they’re going to come looking for you here, don’t you know that?”

“You’ll hide me,” he says confidently.

“Then I’m in trouble, too.” Flint’s words run through my head: “keep yourself clean.” “I have to call them.”

“No! No, you can’t! You said…you said…” he begins to choke on his words, overwhelmed. He launches himself at me, taking me by surprise. He knocks me back over the log, and I land flat on my back with him on top of me. He’s light, but he’s hitting me in the face. As soon as I get my breath back, I grab his wrists, holding his arms away from me, and flip over, pinning him on his back. “Let me up! Let me up!” he screams, his face turning red with effort, spit forming at the corners of his mouth.

I hold his hands next to him until he stops fighting and dissolves into tears. I let him go and fall back against the log, sitting on the cold, leaf-covered ground. I close my eyes. I can’t watch him cry, but his sobs are loud, echoing inside my brain.

“Please, Marcus, please…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re so selfish,” he says, garbled through his sobs. “I’ll never forgive you. Never.”

That night, it’s not a caseworker from children’s services who picks him up, but a cop car. He hasn’t said another word to me, just stared away into space as I plead with him to understand. Told him about the opportunities the Marines provide, the money I’ll be able to send him eventually.

The Ralstons stand on the stoop behind me, dispassionately watching as Marcus is handcuffed and put in the back of the car. I stare in shock at the cop and he looks at me and shrugs, “Protocol.” He tells me that Marcus’s foster family doesn’t want him back; they’ll be pressing charges and he’ll be tried in juvenile court. I hear the Ralstons turn and go inside as the car’s lights flash red onto the surrounding trees. I can just see Marcus’s head over the back seat as the car pulls toward the road.

I start walking after the car. It turns right on the road, headed toward the highway, and I break out into a sprint behind it as it picks up speed, keeping my eyes trained on the back of my little brother’s head. I’ve made a huge mistake. I’ve sacrificed my little brother for my own selfish plans. He came to me for help and I turned him right back over to the people he was trying to escape.

But now it will be even worse for him. I’ve heard stories about the kind of places Marcus is now headed for. His small frame being pummeled by teenagers far larger than him invade my mind, torturing me. Derek pales in comparison to the kind of kids he’ll encounter. I slow to a stop, gasping for air, as the taillights of the cop car are swallowed by the night.

What kind of life have I condemned my little brother to?

Chapter Seventeen

Violet

Present Day

Drifter never came home last night, and I haven’t heard from him all day. I haven’t seen Marcus since the Sons led him out behind the house. Even though it would be awkward as hell being around Dr. Green right now, I wish I were at work. Anything would be better than sitting around at home wondering where Drifter is.

I pick up the joint next to me and take a long drag. The setting sun shines through the trail of smoke as I exhale. I don’t smoke that much anymore, but I really need it today. Though I can’t say it’s helping my anxiety that much. I turn up the volume on this dumb entertainment news show I’m watching. The house is too quiet.

My cell phone vibrates on the table next to me. I both hope and dread that it’s Drifter; what if he’s calling to tell me to move out? I glance at the screen. It’s Cherish. I flip it open.

“Hey,” she says, a little too casually.

“Hey…what’s up?”

“Well…Drifter wasn’t at church tonight.”

“What? Are you serious?” I know by ‘church’ she means a mandatory club meeting, not the kind with a steeple.

“Yeah…Hollywood told me.”

“Fuck,” I murmur. The valid excuses for missing church are death and coma. That’s it.

“You know where he is?”

“No…we had a big fight last night. Haven’t seen him or Marcus since. This isn’t like him…he’s been drinking a lot…what if something happened to him?”

Cherish pauses and I hold my breath. I know she’s considering the truth of what I’m saying.

“Hollywood and some of the other brothers are checking around for him. They said he hasn’t been answering his phone.”

“Will you call me if you hear anything?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry. Everything will be OK.” She hangs up with a click, and I can’t help but think that she seemed to just be giving me the standard platitudes of people who don’t know what else to say.

I bite the corner of my fingernail nervously. The truth is, I have no idea where Drifter has been going lately, so I have no idea where to start looking. Maybe I could call his boss from the construction site? But I don’t want to make Drifter sound like some irresponsible drunk.

The dogs jump up from their doggie beds by the wall and run to the front door barking. They don’t bark for Drifter, but maybe it could be someone with him, or someone with news of him. I stand up and walk to the edge of the living room, watching hopefully as the front door slowly swings inward.

My mouth drops open in shock. It’s Marcus, and he’s been badly beaten.

“Oh my god,” I say, rushing toward him, forgetting my anger. “Come and sit down.”

I pull out a chair at the dining room table and usher him into it, then hurry into the kitchen for a bowl of warm water and some towels.

“What happened?” I ask, as I sit down across from him and wet the paper towel. There’s so much blood on his face that I can’t see what kind of injuries he has. I lean forward to dab at his cheek.

“The Sons,” he rasps. I freeze in shock.

“No…why? They wouldn’t…” I’m not naïve about the Sons’ activities, but I’ve always respected that when they use violence, it’s proportional, purposeful. They’re not sadists—like my ex-husband and his friends were. Liz took care of Marcus’s transgression in the moment. I mean, I could understand Flint getting a couple more punches in, but not like this.

“Furious about Liz…the fair…didn’t mean to fuck everything up so much,” he murmurs.

I don’t reply, I just begin to gently wipe the blood away from his face. The cut that Liz gave him is still open on his right cheek, though perhaps it would have closed by now if it wasn’t for the beating. His nose is swollen, definitely broken, and he’s breathing through his mouth. His eyes are bloodshot and black and blue; his skin is split on his lip and brow. I place my rag back in the bowl, turning the water red with his blood.

“You need to go to the hospital. Some of the lacerations I could take care of, but I don’t know how to reset your nose—you don’t want to have permanent breathing issues. And I’m guessing there’s damage to the rest of your body I can’t even see,” I observe, glancing at his torn and dirty black t-shirt. He winces in reply, but doesn’t say anything, just looks at his hands. “If you’re worried about explaining your injuries, don’t be, I know the people there. Marcus…you really need to go.”

“Where’s Drifter?” he asks abruptly. I lean back in my chair.

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since last night. He missed a mandatory club meeting this morning. I’m really worried about him. Have you seen him?”

He shakes his head slowly. “No…last I saw him, he and Flint were talking in Flint’s office.”

“We’ve been arguing a lot lately…but what if he drank too much, got into an accident…it’s not like him…”

Marcus pauses, staring at his hands, then looks up at me sharply.

“I might know where he is,” Marcus whispers.

“Really? Where?”

“This bar we went to a bunch last week…”

“What was it called?”

“Fuck…I don’t remember…I was always pretty wasted, to be honest. But I think I remember where it is, like if I was driving there.”

I hesitate. “I don’t think you’re in any condition…”

“After we go find Drifter, I’ll go straight to the hospital, I promise. I just want to make sure he’s OK.”

“Alright, deal,” I reply, with a little smile. “Let me just grab my purse.” I run into the bedroom and pull on a sweatshirt and sneakers, then grab my phone and toss it in my bag on my way out through the living room. Marcus is standing by the front door, texting on his phone. He glances up at me.

“Just trying Drifter. Nothing yet, though,” he says. He goes to open the door and winces. “Hey, maybe you should drive,” he adds.

“Yeah, of course. My car’s in the garage.” We cross through the kitchen and into the garage. I check one last time to make sure Drifter hasn’t called before I tuck my phone in my sweatshirt pocket and slide into the front seat. I press the garage door open button on the visor then watch as Marcus awkwardly gets into the passenger side.

“Right and then another right at the stop sign,” Marcus says, as I pull out of the driveway. I follow his instructions, wondering how far away this bar is. Has Drifter been there this whole time? For that matter…

“Hey, where’d you go?” I ask, frowning a little. I was so taken aback by Marcus’s appearance that it never occurred to me until now.

“What do you mean?”

“After the party, and the Sons beat you, you must have been really injured…that was the night before last, where’d you go yesterday?”

“Oh, um, I was passed out at the clubhouse, in the backyard…”

“Oh.” My frown deepens. He’s saying he was passed out, outside, for over 24 hours? He would have to have gotten a severe head injury for that to be the case, but now he’s up and his mind seems to be functioning fine. My eyes flick over as he shifts in his seat again. Is he adjusting for an injury on his body? A passing streetlight glances off a piece of dark metal tucked close to his body next to the passenger side door.