Sunken Graves by Alan Lee (life books to read txt) 📗

it got’damn works. By now I shouldn’t have to wipe your ass. Clean your shit. Sons take care of their father, not the other way round.”

Gibbs’s voice swelled inside Peter’s ears. Growing hot. Wipe your ass, a phrase Peter had picked up from his father, evidence of his dependency. Memories flashed on his conscious, as a child who’d defecated in his bed, terrified to wake up his new father. Again.

“But you saw her. You can’t blame me.” Lynch’s voice was pathetic to his own ears.

“I bet you think she’s lovely.”

“She is.”

“You’re right. But they always are until you get through with them, Peter.” The chief didn’t point at the distant plot of land behind the shooting range but he may as well have. Land with sunken spots. “I risk my neck for you one more time, I’m done. Hear me? They’ll know and I’ll be done. Me and your brother, all of us in prison. Covering for you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“But you won’t stop. You’re sorry but you won’t stop, and that’s why we’re not a family. That’s why I have to hide from my granddaughter,” said the chief. “And it’s different this time.”

“How?”

“You got a problem, Peter. A big damn problem.”

“What’s my problem?”

“You know your problem. You put a brick through his window.”

“Daniel Jennings,” said Peter Lynch. Hate kindled. Hate, the true sign of manhood.

“That’s right. I met Jennings. He knows about you. He’s not a man you can bully or buy or bury.”

“He’s a teacher. I can deal with a teacher.”

“Should see the way Daisy looks at him, Peter.”

“No. No she doesn’t.” His fists clenched. Fire creeping but careful to avoid the voice of Chief Gibbs wherever he roamed.

“You know his family?” said Gibbs.

“I know.”

“Drives you nuts, don’t it. Jennings being from a family of war heroes. And you, fat and slow, couldn’t even make the military as a JAG. He lived it and tossed aside your dream life.”

Another unwelcome memory, Peter now a man, returning home in shame after failing the MEPS physical. Returning home to a father’s wrath. Lynch flinched away from it.

Gibbs said, “Jennings is a problem. Stop pissing him off.”

“He’s nothing compared to me. He…he’s broke. He limps and he was discharged. She doesn’t look at him.”

His father stuck a finger into Lynch’s face. “Get your mind off her. You forgot what it means to be a man? I need to remind you?”

“No.”

“No what?”

“No, Chief.”

“You need a haircut. You always need a haircut.” His words were caught short. His face paled and he pressed a hand below his belt.

“What’s wrong?” said Lynch.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you hurt?”

Gibbs opened his eyes and straightened, unclenching. “Just old. Stay away from Jennings. And stay away from the girl.”

“I…” said Lynch. “I did. For a year, I stayed away. But she wants me. I can’t anymore.”

Gibbs snatched the ball cap off his head and struck Peter with it. A stinging blow to his cheek. Lynch wore it, wouldn’t cry. It almost felt nostalgic.

The police chief pulled the cap on and stepped away.

The wave of paternal anger rose and quelled. Looking back at him, the little boy he’d adopted who couldn’t help himself, no matter what he tried. The little boy who caught and suffocated squirrels, and who used fish hooks to string up living rabbits by their ears in these mountains, who’d had to learn how to be strong, how to be a man or the world would’ve destroyed him.

“I know you can’t, son. I know. And that’s why Jennings is a problem.”

16

Daniel Jennings’ phone buzzed during second period Tuesday. He silenced it and waited until lunch to check. He had a voicemail from Kabir Patel.

Sir, I am willing to talk with you. Face to face. If you are interested come to Richmond this evening. The Fan District at six o’clock. When you get close, you will call me and I will give you the location then. It is necessary for me to take precautions. Let me know if you are coming. When we meet, if you use my name, I will leave.

Patel spoke with an Indian accent.

Jennings spent the rest of lunch pacing. Up and down the columns of desks. Benji and another boy toiled silently on their makeup work.

His pursuit of Peter Lynch felt like a series of point-of-no-return decisions. His chat with Ms. Pierce, the restaurant rendezvous with Craig Lewis, the meeting with Chief Gibbs, each with escalating consequences.

Now here was another. Drive three hours to meet with the reporter who investigated Lynch. Most likely it wasn’t a setup. Most likely. Three hours there, three hours back, he wouldn’t return until late and he was on dorm duty tonight. He’d need to swap nights with Mr. Hogan.

Of course he was going. No turning back now.

It was a foolish fear but he didn’t want to risk a cryptic phone conversation with Benji in the room. So instead of returning the call, he emailed Patel.

I’ll have to hustle and might be closer to 6:30. But I’m coming.

Jennings bolted after school, forsaking the sign-out sheet. He took Interstate 81 to 64 East in the rented Nissan Altima. During the drive he kept checking his rearview. Like somehow Lynch could read his email and follow him.

Relax, Dan. Paranoia is an enemy.

The Fan District is the city’s hub for live music and art galleries and theater. Jennings left Interstate 64 for downtown Richmond and he called Patel.

“I’m here.”

“Go to the Curbside Cafe on Hanover. I will be right there.”

Jennings found a parking spot in front of Red Salon Organics, closed for the evening. The Curbside Cafe was a diner built into an old house, now trendy and eclectic. He stepped out of the chill and requested a table for two.

“Are you here to meet with a gentleman?” asked the waitress.

“I am.”

“He called. There’s a table for you already.” She led him to the back, away from the windows. “What can I start you with?”

“A coffee, thanks.”

She brought it and Jennings sipped it for ten minutes, waiting.

Kabir Patel found me online, looked