A Dead Issue Read online

  A DEAD ISSUE

  JOHN EVANS

  A DEAD ISSUE

  Copyright © 2013, by John Evans

  Cover Copyright © 2013 by Sunbury Press, Inc. Cover art designed by Lawrence von Knorr.

  NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact Sunbury Press, Inc., Subsidiary Rights Dept., 50-A West Main St., Mechanicsburg, PA 17055 USA or [email protected].

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Sunbury Press, Inc. Wholesale Dept. at (855) 338-8359 or [email protected].

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  FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION

  Printed in the United States of America

  July 2013

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-62006-250-0

  Mobipocket format (Kindle) ISBN: 978-1- 62006-251-7

  ePub format (Nook) ISBN: 978-1-62006-252-4

  Published by:

  Sunbury Press

  Mechanicsburg, PA

  www.sunburypress.com

  DEDICATION

  To my girls—Deborah, Kai, and Julie

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It has often been said that no one writes in a vacuum. Writers need counsel, guidance, constructive criticism, encouragement, and an occasional martini when all else fails. There are many ways to fill that vacuum, but the best way is to become part of a community of writers. In my part of Pennsylvania, the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group has served me well as we share a common journey, celebrating our triumphs and grieving our setbacks. I am inspired by every member and seek advice and criticism from a pool talented writers—specifically, Becky Bartlett and Fern Hill, my beta readers; William Marley, Rachel Thompson, Anne Boyle, Bart Palamaro, and Jon Gibbs for their insightful comments or suggestions.

  Special thanks to David K. Behm and Jennifer Melendrez.

  CHAPTER 1

  We rode in silence for several miles, winding along a stream that would take us back to Fannett Meadow. As we passed Cameron Industries, we both looked at the main gate, hating the place for different reasons.

  I rearranged my grip on the wheel, eyes darting between Dusty and the road ahead. After cutting brush for six hours, neither of us felt like talking, but this was as good a time as any. It was an issue that had smoldered between us all week. And now, one look at that gate had stirred the embers into little flames that would soon engulf us.

  “He called,” I said.

  Dusty plucked an ebony plug from his earlobe, inspected it for a moment, and worked it back into place. He glanced at me and looked down.

  “Your dad?” He waited for my nod. “Still pushing to get you on the payroll?”

  “Not this time. I smell an ultimatum.”

  I opened the window a crack, letting the cool autumn air sweep across my face.

  “I wish he’d put me on the payroll,” Dusty said and we fell silent for a moment.

  That was never going to happen. I said nothing and felt guilty.

  “If he cuts you out you’ll understand—working shit jobs, no family . . .”

  “Maybe that’s not a bad thing,” I said.

  I dropped my speed from fifty to thirty-five as we entered Fannett Meadow, a sleepy little village tucked among the rolling hills of Pennsylvania.

  “Anyway,” I said, “I’ll find out tomorrow. He wants to have lunch. He sounded different. No anger.”

  I turned left on Fifth Street.

  “If you want, I’ll ask him about a job . . .”

  I glanced into my rearview mirror and let my head fall back against the headrest. A squad car nuzzled my bumper. The low profile light bar flashed, followed by a quick “whoop-whoop.” Dusty jumped, swiveled his head around, and then tried to melt into the seat at rigid attention.

  “Great,” I said and pulled over in front of a long string of rowhomes. My place sat at the end of the block.

  The officer in the cruiser ignored us as he relayed information to his dispatcher. I used the time get my registration and insurance card from the glove compartment. I dug into my back pocket for my wallet. It wasn’t there.

  “Crap.”

  Dusty shifted his eyes in my direction without moving his head. I checked the rearview mirror again. The officer looked up and his features came into focus. Lenny DiNuccio. Double crap.

  I blew out a breath. “Brace yourself.”

  Lenny approached my car and positioned himself behind my window so I had to twist my neck out of joint to see him.

  “License and registration,” he said in that raspy voice of his. He held out his hand, palm up, just beyond my reach.

  “Sir, do you know how fast you were going?”

  Sir? This was not going to go well.

  “Lenny, I slowed to thirty-five . . .”

  “It’s Officer DiNuccio, and I have you at forty-seven when you came into town.”

  “I was slowing down—”

  “And your insurance card,” he cut me off.

  I handed over my registration and insurance card. No sense putting it off. “I don’t have my wallet,” I added.

  Lenny studied my papers while his dyslexia kicked in, pursing his lips like he was solving a cryptogram.

  “Says here the car is registered to Mark Cameron. That you?”

  I nodded. “Lenny, we went to school together. I graduated fourth, and you were . . . let me think . . . How many were in our class?”

  I twisted around to see his face. He was shaking his head slowly, still studying my registration. “I did go to school with a Mark Cameron, but he drove around in a Corvette he got for his sixteenth birthday. Red—with black leather interior. Wouldn’t be caught dead in this piece of shit.”

  “That was then, this is . . . things change.”

  Lenny shook his head again. “Some things don’t. The law still says you need a driver’s license to operate a motor vehicle—at a safe speed. What’s the big hurry?”

  “I’m going home,” I said and pointed my chin toward the end of the block. “Then I’m going to work . . .” I paused before giving Officer DiNuccio his ego boost for the day, “at McDonald’s.”

  I didn’t have to turn around to see his reaction. I felt it in the long pause that followed. I cut the silence with more good news for Officer DiNuccio. “And I just finished clearing brush. I need a shower, could use a nap, and would appreciate a break—”

  “The Mark Cameron I knew wouldn’t need a job. His daddy would give him—”

  “Fuck you, Lenny. Just give me the ticket.”

  Dusty let out a soft moan. I expected Lenny to drag me out of the car, but he stooped down to peek at my passenger.

  “Who’s that?”

  “My brother.”

  “You have a brother?”

  The news snapped Lenny out of his little game. “Like I said, things change.”

  Lenny recovered quickly, but he was no longer in ballbusting mode. He was Officer DiNuccio, on duty, fully alert, and unsure what was going on.

  “I’m going to need some identification,” he said to Dusty. Then he looked at me. “I’ll take the keys.”

  Dusty lifted his right ass cheek to get his wallet and pried his license out of the plastic window. Officer DiNuccio took my keys and Dusty’s license back to the squad car and settled in. Dusty reached up and adjusted the mirror so he could watch. He let
out a breath. “We may have a problem,” he said, giving me a serious look.

  “Don’t tell me—you have a warrant.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How could you not know?”

  “Because I don’t.” Dusty sat forward studying the rear view mirror. “I smell trouble, I leave. You think I’m going to hang around to see if there’s a warrant?”

  We sat for five minutes without speaking, Dusty unable to take his eyes off the mirror.

  “What’s he doing?”

  Dusty frowned. “Not sure. He’s bobbing his head. I think he’s listening to Lady Gaga or something. Jerking our chain some more—gonna make us late for work.”

  There was another long silence.

  “If there’s a warrant, what would it be for?”

  “Chicken shit. They rounded up some buyers and sellers in a sweep. We’re going to find out what happens soon enough—real soon. Here he comes.”

  I turned in time to see Lenny close the door of his cruiser.

  “I’m OK,” Dusty announced. “He’s relaxed. Gun still snapped in. Life is good.”

  Lenny approached my window tapping Dusty’s license with my keys. He gave the license a little frisbee toss and it landed in Dusty’s lap. I held out my hand for the keys, but Lenny snapped his fist around them.

  “Your names are different.”

  “He’s my half-brother,” I explained and closed my eyes. “Different fathers, different names.”

  Three months ago, I thought I was an only child. Then Dusty wandered into town searching for his roots and found me. I am blonde and clean-cut—like my father. Dusty is dark, like our mother, and looks like he crawled out of a head-on collision between Tim’s Tattoo Parlor and the Piercing Palace.

  Lenny was quiet for a moment and then nodded.

  “I’m going to give you a warning, Mr. Cameron. It’s going to save you about a week’s wages at McDonald’s.” The last three words slid out of his mouth slimy with sarcasm and he smiled. “And the next time I see you driving, you better have your license. For now, you can leave it here and walk home, or let Stanley drive.”

  I looked over at Dusty and he ran his middle finger along a row of rings piercing his eyebrow. Lenny dangled the keys in my face and I handed them over to Dusty.

  “Thank you, Officer DiNuccio,” I said, dripping a little sarcasm of my own.

  Lenny returned to his cruiser and waited as Dusty and I traded places. We closed our doors simultaneously, and the cruiser moved on.

  “Stanley?” I said as Dusty poked around trying to get the key in the ignition. “Really? You gave him a fake license?”

  “It’s not too fake. I paid a lot of money for it—first time I used it.”

  “Does Stanley have any warrants?”

  Dusty gave me a wise-assed smile. “Apparently not.”

  He turned the key and got a series of little clicks. “I thought you were going to get that fixed.”

  “I will when I get paid.”

  “So we’re walking to work?”

  “It’ll start. Give it a minute or two.”

  Dusty drummed his fingers along the top of the steering wheel, keeping rhythm to a song that only he could hear. I thought about Lenny DiNuccio and how he hadn’t changed in almost ten years—still pissed at me because my father was rich. Asshole. I was not looking forward to dodging him all weekend. I turned to Dusty.

  “Let’s go back to Jonah’s to get my wallet. Keep Lenny off my ass.”

  “We’re going to be late.” He checked his watch. “Cash will be pissed.”

  “He’s always pissed.”

  Dusty grunted in agreement and pulled out his phone. His thumbs flashed around the keyboard. “I’ll see if Phil and Dex can cover for us.” His thumbs never stopped. He looked up briefly. “Keep Cash off our ass, too.”

  He finished and dropped his phone into the breast pocket of his flannel shirt. “Give it a try?”

  I nodded, and my Saturn started right up.

  As we drove back down Route 212, the main gate of Cameron Industries came looming around a curve. To Dusty, the ornate bars, topped with points like spears, were there for one purpose—to keep him out. For me, the bars formed a prison of family loyalty and expectation set firmly in place to keep me in. I thought about my father, wondering if Dusty was right about us ending up in the same boat—without a family, drifting about from place to place, working crappy jobs like McDonald’s or cutting brush for an old farmer. I caught myself grinding my teeth as we passed the rest of Cameron property—campus they call it, like it’s a freakin’ university or something.

  At the top of Jonah’s lane, Dusty had to wait for Morgan’s fuel truck to pull out. The driver gave us a thumbs-up and we turned into his cloud of dust. The narrow road was a quarter mile downhill run into a little valley where Jonah’s stone farmhouse sat on the right just beyond a wooden bridge. The dirt track looped around an oval of crabgrass before heading back toward the main road.

  When we got to the bridge, I saw that Jonah's banged-up F150 wasn’t in its usual place next to the house. At lunch he had talked about an appointment. He was gone—to the dentist, maybe the bank—out on the road somewhere, squinting through lenses that looked like shot glasses in frames. Dusty parked next to the empty patch of dead grass.

  We got out of my car and climbed three wooden steps to his back porch and I knocked on the door without any real hope that he was home. Unless Jonah came back within the next few minutes, I’d have to give it up for the day—go without money and a license until Monday. Christ.

  Dusty checked his watch. “You know where your wallet is?”

  “On the counter by the sink. I tossed it there when we sat down for lunch.”

  Dusty reached around me and twisted the knob. “The door’s open. Go get it.”

  I hesitated—unsure.

  He placed the toe of his shoe at the base of the door and gave it a push. It swung open, and we looked down the narrow mudroom, a hallway where Jonah shucked off his boots before entering his kitchen. Technically, this was little more than a closed-in porch, so entering did not seem like trespassing. That feeling kicked in when we got to the door to the kitchen. I knocked.

  “He’s not home,” Dusty said with some annoyance.

  I poked my head into the kitchen. “Jonah?” I called. “Anyone home?” I caught Dusty rolling his eyes.

  “I’ll get it for you . . . Christ,” he said, nudging me aside. With a few quick steps he was by the sink looking down at the counter, feeling his way around the shadows near the breadbox.

  It was my turn to roll my eyes, and I joined him, looking down at the spot where my wallet should have been. Jonah must have found it.

  A door closed somewhere above us.

  Dusty’s eyes grew wide. “Somebody’s home.”

  “Hey, Jonah,” I called and stepped into the den with two stuffed chairs angled at the fireplace.

  A roar cascaded down the stairwell. “Who’s down there?”

  It was not a question, but an accusation. The voice, tight with anger, was barely recognizable as Jonah’s. “Who’s down there?” he bellowed again, louder this time, with more ferocity.

  We turned toward the stairwell with its sharply curved spiral of steps spilling into the den.

  “Jonah, it’s us,” I called.

  A footfall, heavy and deliberate, clomped down the first step, followed by a grunt and a gunshot like a grenade at the top of the stairs. Plaster exploded from the wall at the bottom of the steps, and a thumping avalanche of noise came rumbling down the stairwell as if someone had pushed a refrigerator from the top landing. Jonah tumbled into the pale shaft of light from the front door, landing with his feet still on the stairs and his arms splayed out. His pistol landed next to him and spun once on its side before coming to a halt a few feet from his outstretched hand.

  CHAPTER 2

  We ran, banging into each other, shoving one another aside, pulling on sleeves and collars trying t
o be first in our panic-stricken flight. Dusty pushed past me in the kitchen and burst out of the house. He headed straight for my car and dove into the passenger seat. I jumped behind the wheel, started the engine, and dropped it into first. We bounced across the rough lawn in a tight circle that brought me back to the lane and toward the bridge. The car lurched over the bridge like a horse jumping a low fence, and our heads snapped forward upon landing.

  A glance in the rearview mirror showed a column of dust spiraling behind us like the contrail of a fighter jet—I lifted my foot from the gas pedal. Dusty looked over at me, confusion written on his face. I found the break in the stone row where Jonah drove his tractor into the fields, and maneuvered around the piles of brush we had made earlier in the day. I stopped the car, both hands gripping the wheel.

  “We have to go back.”

  “He shot at us!” Dusty said.

  “There was a shot,” I explained. “He didn’t know it was us.”

  Dusty raked his fingers through his hair and looked toward the stone row on his right. Shadows deepened and spread from under the trees. The sky was a dark blue, minutes from the blackness of a moonless October night. He bit his lip and nodded.

  “OK . . . OK. You’re right,” he said like he was trying to convince himself.

  I settled back in the driver’s seat and turned the key. The car emitted a series of little clicks.

  “You really need to do something about that.”

  I climbed out of the car and headed toward the farmhouse on foot. Dusty sat in the car for a moment and then caught up. As we crossed the field to the lane, I took note of the ground, trying to determine if there was enough slope to clutch-start my car. It looked possible.

  “What if he’s dead?” Dusty asked.

  “Don’t know,” I answered and kept moving. Dusty had to take a running step every so often to keep up to my pace.

  “If he’s alive he must be hurt bad—a guy that old falling down the stairs.”

  Darkness settled down hard on Jonah’s valley. As we crossed the little wooden bridge, we paused to survey the scene and contemplate what might lie ahead. Wind rustled through the dying leaves, bringing with it a chill and the promise of approaching winter. Shadows strangled Jonah’s house. A flutter of leaves fell around us. The house itself was completely dark, its rustic warmth gone, replaced now by a forbidding shroud.