The Devil's Alphabet

you’re going to move back? Now I’m not judging you. You had an accident. But you have to realize that you’re not thinking straight. That’s why your dad needs to stay at the Home right now.”

“That’s bullshit. First of all, Rhonda is the one that wants him for what he’s producing. I’m his son. I can’t just sell him off-”

“Calm down, P.K.”

“Don’t tell me to fucking calm down! Jesus, how the hell did she get you wrapped around her fat finger? Is this some kind of clade thing? Chubs and trolls versus the skips?”

“You’re over the line, man.”

“Just tell me. You’re the Chief, right? Are you going to back me on this or not?”

“It’s not about backing you. Why don’t you take some time to-”

“Time? Time?” Pax looked down at his hands clutching the edges of the barstool. His knuckles were white. He released his grip-one hand, two, easy does it-and stood up. “Forget it. I can see you’re too busy for this. You have yourself a wonderful day.”

“P.K…” Deke followed him across the shop, trying to talk to him the whole time.

Paxton sat in the dark at the side of the highway, engine and headlights off. No car had passed for ten minutes. The only light came from the light pole set next to the driveway to the Home.

He got out, jogged across the road, and started up the drive. He’d planned on going straight up the hill, avoiding the driveway-because what if they had cameras watching it?-but he saw now that that was impossible; he hadn’t remembered how high the banks were, how thickly the brush covered the hill.

The driveway was also much steeper than he’d thought. Immediately he was sweating, his heart pounding in his throat. He jogged around the first curve and the light from the pole vanished, plunging him into darkness.

He slowed to a walk, panting, then stopped altogether, hands on his hips. He stared at the ground, but he could barely make out his shoes in the scant moonlight.

Fuck it.

He clumped back down to the car, cranked the engine. He aimed for the mouth of the driveway and pressed the accelerator as far as he dared. The Ford lurched up the hill, engine whining. He swung through the first curve a little too fast, over-braked as he entered the second, and then the car stuttered and he was losing momentum. He dropped into low and hunched over the wheel, willing his headlights up the slope. When he passed the third curve and he thought he was almost at the top he stopped the car, cut the lights, and set the emergency brake.

Five more minutes of walking got him within sight of the iron gate and the stone wall. There was a light pole here as well, casting a circle of light on the gate and the patch of pavement around the intercom. He skirted the light, moving off to the right until he was standing at the base of the wall.

The wall was set into the slope. He couldn’t take a running start because he’d be running uphill. He ran a hand over the surface, but the big stones didn’t project far from the mortar; there was no way he could pull himself all the way up by his fingers, and a fall would send him rolling down the hill.

He started moving along the wall to the right. The ground had to level out at some point. Or maybe he’d find a tree or something close to the wall that would let him drop over.

With every step away from the light it grew darker. By the time he reached the first corner he couldn’t see his hands. He moved around the corner and his feet slid out from under him. He stifled a yell, but then his chest hit the ground and his elbow struck rock, sending fire shooting up his arm. He swore loudly. Then he started to slide. It felt like the hill was almost straight down on this side. He threw out his left arm, hands clutching at weeds and grass, and spread his legs.

He slid to a stop after ten or twelve feet. He pressed his face into the grass and lay there, breathing.

Then he saw the lights.

Fuck, he thought. Fuckity fuck fuck.

A pair of headlights snaked up the drive. The lights disappeared for a moment behind the bulk of the hill, then reappeared, higher and closer. The underside of the car glowed neon green, and he could hear the thump of bass from its stereo.

The car stopped not quite up the hill. A spotlight switched on from the passenger side, and the light illuminated his Ford Tempo. After a few seconds the glowing car rolled forward and he lost sight of it again.

Pax rose to hands and knees and started crawling to his left, toward the driveway. A minute later he could see the glowing car again, stopped in front of the gate. The stereo had switched off. The spotlight played over the grass near the wall. Pax dropped low and began crawling backward. If he could drop down about fifty yards he could cut across to his car and get the hell out of here.

The light suddenly hit him in the face. Voices burst out in laughter.

“Hey there, Cuz!” someone called.

The slope here was less extreme. He got to his feet, wincing into the light. He made his way back to the gate, supporting himself with one hand against the wall. His elbow still buzzed with pain.

Two chub boys stood in front of a metallic green Toyota Camry. Two chub girls in the backseat laughed nervously.

“Hi, Clete,” Pax said. He couldn’t remember the name of the younger boy, the one holding the spotlight. Something like “Elvis,” or maybe he thought that just because of the sideburns.

“What the hell you doing out here?” Clete asked. “You’re liable to get shot, sneaking around in the dark.”

“People might think you’re a pervert,” the other one said. Travis, that was his name.

Pax reached the edge of the driveway. His hands were shaking, and he felt ready to throw up. The girls in the backseat stared at him. The red-haired one was Doreen, the nurse who’d washed him at the clinic.

“I’m just going to go home,” Pax said. From this close, the boys smelled of vintage, but vintage with a strange tang to it-nothing like his father’s scent.

Clete said, “That’s good. That’s why they called us, to take you home. Before they shot your ass.”

Travis aimed that light into his face. “It’s kind of a last-chance taxi service.”

Pax said, “Look, my car’s right down there. I’ll drive home, and you can tell Rhonda that I’ll-”

The punch seemed to come out of nowhere. Pax hit the ground. For a moment he wasn’t sure where he’d been hit. His nose burned.

“I have to ask you,” Clete said. He picked up Pax under his arms and lifted him easily. Pax’s knees threatened to give out, but Clete steadied him. “What the hell was your plan? Carry your six-hundred-pound daddy down the hill by yourself?”

“Clete, listen…” Pax said.

“No, push him down the driveway in his hospital bed,” Travis said, laughing. “Get up to like sixty mile an hour, until he hits that first curve, then airborne!”

“UFO!” Clete said. “Unidentified Fat Object.”

Inside the car the chub girls whooped with laughter.

Pax gripped Clete’s forearms. “I know people in Chicago. This is an incredible drug. You help me get him out, and I can help you, help you sell it.”

“Really?” Clete said. “This stuff really got to you, huh?”

“UFO,” Travis said, still laughing. “You kill me, man.”

Clete said, “I gotta admit, your daddy makes some of the finest vintage I ever smelled. I’d love to try some on Doreen.”

“Rhonda doesn’t have to keep all this to herself,” Pax said. “You could sell it.”

Clete nodded. “I hear you, Cuz, I hear you. But right now?” He shrugged. “Right now I got to beat the living shit out of you.”

Chapter 11

DEKE KNOCKED ON the back door of the clinic, waited half a minute, knocked again. The door opened and he said, “Hey, Marla.”

“We’re closed on Sundays,” Dr. Fraelich said.