“Oh, I think you do,” Milo said fiercely. “I’m talking about you and that high and mighty afro-disiac of yours.”
Mitch climbed slowly to his feet, clearing his throat. He had at least six inches on the little man, not to mention a solid eighty pounds. “I don’t think you want to take this conversation where you’re taking it, Mr. Kershaw.”
“Get lost, old man,” Justine ordered him. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“That’s how you talk to your father now?”
“That’s how I talk to ignorant racists who don’t know when to shut up.”
“I should slap your face for saying that to me.”
“I’d like to see you try,” she responded, flicking her lit cigarette at him.
Milo swatted it away. “Tell your black bitch to stay away from me and my boys,” he said angrily. “Or there’s no telling what might happen.”
“You’d better get back in your truck right now, Mr. Kershaw,” Mitch said to him as calmly as he could. “You’d also be wise to steer clear of me in the future, or I may have to beat the crap out of you.”
Milo let out a harsh laugh. “Who are you kidding, you marsh-mallow? I could take you apart in sixty seconds.”
Mitch moved in a step closer, towering over him. “Get back in your truck.”
Something in Mitch’s voice convinced the little man to scurry back to his pickup and jump in, slamming the door behind him. He drove right off, his engine sputtering.
Justine watched him go. “Do you hate your parents?”
“Not at all.”
“God, that must be weird.” She studied Mitch curiously now. “When you tell people about my book, what are you going to say?”
Mitch considered his next words carefully, because he felt certain that She’ll Do Ya was about to become a major literary sensation. High school girls across America would devour its explosive contents. This lovely, fearless young woman would become their literary idol. Tremendous controversy would surround She’ll Do Ya. Talk radio pundits would condemn it. Religious groups would want it banned from libraries and big box outlets like this very store. “I’d like to show it to a literary agent I know,” he said finally. “If that’s okay with you.”
Justine stuck her lower lip out, confused. “Are you saying you think somebody might want to publish it?”
“I’m saying I think it’s sensational.”
She let out a gasp. “Oh, no, you didn’t!”
“Oh, yes, I did.” Mitch smiled at her. “You’re a very gifted young writer, and I’m honored to know you.”
She let out a high-pitched adolescent shriek and jumped right into his lap. “I can’t believe this!” she cried out, hugging him, kissing him. “I must be tripping!”
“No, no, this is totally real. Only slow down, because we still have to-”
“You can’t imagine what this means to me!” She was squirming around in his lap like an excited kindergartner. Which Mitch was acutely aware she was not.
“I think I can. But you still have a lot of questions to answer. So go back to your neutral corner, will you?”
“Sure, absolutely. Whatever you say.” She climbed out of his lap and sat back down, rubbing her little hands together eagerly. “Fire away.”
“For starters, what do you hope to gain from this book?”
Justine frowned at him. “I’m not sure what that means.”
“Do you want justice?”
“There’s no such thing, cupcake. That’s a twentieth-century term.”
“Okay, then I’ll put it to you this way: What’s your dream?”
“I don’t really have dreams. What’s the point, you know? Be-ment wants to buy a boat and sail around the world for the rest of his life.”
“Would you go with him?”
“In a heartbeat. All we have is each other. Both of our families suck beyond belief. His happens to be rich, but he won’t be until they all kick off, which won’t be for years. It wouldn’t have to be a huge boat. He thinks a thirty- six-footer would do. He’s crewed to Bermuda and stuff. I know jack about sailing, but I can learn if… Why are you looking at me that way?”
“His grandmother’s Gullwing was stolen this morning. You could swap that for a pretty nice boat, I’d imagine.”
“Probably so,” she acknowledged. “But we didn’t steal it. That would be unbelievably stupid.”
“Justine, did these things really happen to you or not?”
She rolled her gleaming dark eyes at him. “Why do you keep obsessing on that? Why does it even matter?”
“Because if this is a true story then things could get really messy around here. For that matter, even if it isn’t a true story things could get messy-because people are going to think it’s true. And a lot of them won’t want you to publish it.”
“Screw them.”
“Your character thinks that her life might be in danger. Is your life in danger? Are you afraid?”
“Of what, dying? Why should I be? Take a look at my world.” She gestured out at the parking lot full of avid shoppers who were rushing headlong into the joyless discount emporium. “Check out all of these people who are so desperate to max out their credit cards on meaningless crap. Say hello to total despair at bargain prices. Being dead can’t be any worse than this, can it?”
Mitch had no response. Absolutely could not fathom this talented young woman. Justine possessed so much sensitivity, heart and passion. Yet she could also seem as dead inside as her burnt-out heroine. Was this her life story or wasn’t it? Was she someone who’d been plundered by half the men in town or wasn’t she?
Would the real Justine Kershaw please stand up?
She was gazing at him. “You really think somebody will publish it?”
“I really do, Justine.”
“Then you could do me one more huge favor, if you don’t mind.” Justine lowered her eyes and swallowed. “Would you tell Bement for me?”
CHAPTER 10
Her first thought was hit and run.
Old Pete was always pedaling his funked-up contraption right along the edge of the road in the predawn darkness. It was entirely possible that some half-awake commuter had accidentally clipped him and sent him flying into the ditch. Wouldn’t be out of the question for the driver to keep right on going, afraid to phone it in, afraid of trouble, afraid.
Except that Des could find no skid marks of any kind. Nor any fresh dings in the bike or carts.
And then there were all of those shoeprints in the muddy forest floor. Enough shoe prints for two people. Also a deep toe gouge in the moist earth, as if someone had tripped and fallen. A number of the bare branches in the deep thicket had gotten trampled and broken. Whoever accidentally hit Pete may have dragged him deeper into the woods-out of sight, out of mind. Or, a struggle of some kind may have taken place here.
He was lying face down. Smelled strongly of liquor. What she could see of his face was weathered and grimy. There were no obvious wounds to his body. Not that there necessarily would be if he’d been struck by a car. His innards could be completely crushed and it wouldn’t be apparent until he was laid out on an autopsy table. As she looked at him lying there on the cold ground, discarded and dead, Des realized that Pete bore an uncanny resemblance to roadkill.
She didn’t even know what his last name was.
He wore an old pea coat, stained wool trousers, cracked and oily work boots. The toes of his boots were not caked with mud. A knit stocking cap lay on the ground next to him. Des crouched down for a closer look at the back
