“Gary is . . . Gary?”
“Here,” Gary said softly, his voice coming from behind a big cereal box.
Lomax walked around the table, seeing the small boy hunched over a sketch pad. The kid had smudges of pencil lead on his fingers and one cheek.
“My artist-in-residence,” Lomax asked. “What are you drawing?”
“A horth,” Gary said. “A wild horth.” Apparently this was an important distinction.
Lomax saw swooping lines, the suggestion of movement and muscle.
It was more thought than picture, and he was impressed. “Well, that’s just fine,” he said, and Gary gave him a quick grin. Like a secret shared between them. Gary had been almost blind until Lomax paid for corrective surgery and some serious glasses. His parents had money for a wide-screen TV and big shiny SUV, but they let their little boy stumble around their home in a world of ghostly blurs.
“And Eddy?”
Mrs. Mears pointed the butter knife in the other direction, the back of the house. “Eddy is outside somewhere, being Eddy.” She gave Lomax the slightest smile.
Lomax liked that smile. In fact, he liked everything about Mrs. Mears beyond her professional qualities. He guessed she was a couple of years younger than him, and he was just a few years shy of fifty. She was his height, and shapely, with the kind of hourglass figure that might finally be coming back into vogue. Her hair was strawberry blonde, like copper reflecting the sun, and her eyes were a very dark shade of blue.
“Mr. Lomax?”
“Yes,” said, startled. A man could spend a lifetime looking in to those eyes. “There are more
“I’ll take care of them,” Mrs. Mears said.
Was she hiding a smile now? Lomax suspected his unwillingness to handle dead things amused her to no end. She had once tried to explain that the kills left on the porch were offerings; he was the head of the household and was being honored as such. She also said that they were intended as food, and if he wanted she had recipes handed down from her grandmother and knew how to whip up a mean prairie dog stew or porcupine meatballs.
Lomax had paled when he heard that, and she had laughed.
“It looks like things are under control here,” he said, looking around the busy kitchen. “I think I’ll help myself to—“
“Whole wheat toast with just a touch of butter,” Mrs. Mears said to Shae. “Some melon, or berries, and a large glass of orange juice. Decaf, if coffee is necessary. No eggs, no bacon.”
“Christ,” Lomax said.
He sat at the table and ate what they served him, reading the morning news on his iPad and watching as the other children came into the kitchen and wolfed down their food, closely watching that crisp bacon shimmering with grease and those perfect fried eggs. The children went back to the TV
room, ignoring Mrs. Mears’ suggestion that they go play outside and get some fresh air. Lomax chuckled as a seemingly endless volley of
Two hours later, after checking the markets and writing a few emails while Shae and Mrs. Mears cleaned the kitchen, Lomax stood and stretched.
For a moment he thought he heard a car coming down the long driveway.
“That was . . . nice. Not very filling, mind you, but nice.”
“You’re on a diet, dad,” Shae said with a laugh. “It’s good for you.” Mrs. Mears nodded. “I want to keep you around as long as possible,” she said. “It’s part of my job, of course.”
Lomax was wondering if the woman was blushing when he heard someone coming up the porch steps in the front of the house. The doorbell rang.
“Are we expecting any deliveries today?”
“Not according to my calendar,” Mrs. Mears said.
Lomax went down the hall, his step almost jaunty. He opened the door with a smile, wondering for a moment why the big woman standing there looked so familiar, and then his good mood vanished in the ether as the woman said his name as if describing something indescribably filthy and clipped him across the face with an automatic pistol.
“Happy Halloween, motherfucker,” Brenda said.
Liz hadn’t expected the gun. She knew Brenda was crazy-mean, but she had insisted that they talk to Lomax first, try to reason with him, try to make him see that what he had done was wrong.
Brenda had looked up at the sun as they started up the steps of the wide porch. “It’s high noon in Payback County,” she had said with a coarse laugh, kicking a carved pumpkin off of the porch.
Then the door had opened and Brenda made a gun appear from nowhere and lashed out with it.
Marisa clapped her hands and let out a shout as Brenda pushed Lomax and he stumbled backward, blood running from a nasty cut on his right cheek. She thought Lomax looked fat and soft. She thought this would be easy as she followed Brenda and Liz into the house.
“Patty, get your ass in here,” Brenda said, and Patty followed, as Patty always did.
Brenda closed the door.
A woman stepped into the hall. She was wearing a practical skirt and blouse, and an apron. She stared at the women for a moment.
“Hey look,” Brenda said with a laugh. “It’s June fuckin Cleav—“ The woman turned and ran, slamming a door shut in her wake.
Brenda let out a bull roar that filled the hallway. “Get back here you
Mrs. Mears grabbed Gary, put his little hand in Shae’s, and gave them a gentle shove toward the TV room. “Get your brothers and sisters down into the basement
She closed the door to the TV room just as the door to the hall was slammed open. A young woman came into the kitchen. She was beautiful, despite the tattoos and the hard look in her eyes.
“Get out of this house,” Mrs. Mears said.
“You ain’t in fuckin Kansas no more, bitch,” the woman said.
“I’m from Texas, you little piece of trash.”
“You fuck,” Marisa whispered. “I oughta rip that red hair right outta your fuckin head.”
“Sweetheart, you’d get a lot further in life if you’d let your pretty face do the talking. You are suffering an irreparable deficit of eloquence.”
“Kick her teeth in, baby,” Brenda said, leading Lomax into the kitchen. “Everyone else, take a seat at the table. Breakfast is served.” Liz and Patty sat down. Brenda shoved Lomax into a chair and sat beside him.
Marisa stepped closer to Mrs. Mears, who did her damndest to stand her ground. She had to. She had to give the children enough time to get away from these women, whoever they were.
Marisa reached out and touched a lock of hair that had escaped from Mrs. Mears’ loose braid. “Fuckin color’s probably fake, anyways. Ugly redheaded freak.”
His head was finally clearing, and when Lomax saw the look on Mrs.
Mears face he said, “Sarah, don’t—“
Brenda shouted, “Shut up!”
“
Marisa took something out of her pocket, an honest to God switchblade, and flicked it open. Etched into the shining steel was an image of Christ on the cross.
“You don’ like being touched?” Marisa asked. With her free hand she squeezed Mrs. Mears’ right breast. “Yo, she’s fuckin stacked,” Marisa said.
