The Sinners' Garden Page 5

  “I would like to ask you something, though,” Heather said, facing Rip. “Sort of off the record, if you don’t mind.”

  “Go for it,” Rip said.

  Heather rubbed at her temples. “Do you think there is any chance that Eric Bower is back in business?”

  Rip squinted and then grinned at Heather. He and Eric had been the only two pot dealers of any consequence that Benning had ever known. Rip’s career in that industry had come to a screeching halt when Eric got busted, because for Eric, his own future had pretty much come down to a simple decision.

  “Tell us where you get your weed from or you are gone for twenty years.”

  After ratting out Rip, Eric didn’t do a day in jail, and Rip ended up plea bargaining and getting a surprisingly lenient seventy months. Prison overcrowding and decent behavior had him out in a little less than half his term. Rip guessed that most of the town still figured it was just a matter of time before he attached some bricks to Eric and went for a late-night cruise out on Lake Erie.

  Regardless, Rip was positive that Eric wasn’t the type that was stupid—or smart—enough to get back in the dope game. Not without him.

  “No way,” Rip said. “He’s all done. Why you asking?”

  Heather paused. “I meant to ask you about it before, but last night just got me thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “Nothing,” she said. Heather was already the best-looking woman in Benning, but when she was distracted, something about her light green eyes made her even cuter.

  “C’mon,” Rip prodded. “Tell me.”

  She bit her lip and rested her palms flat on the table. “It’s just that I saw Eric’s kids over near the Dairy Queen on brand-new bicycles. And ever since he got busted . . .” Her eyes flicked to him nervously. “Well, you know. It’s been hard on his family. They’re not exactly rolling in the dough.”

  Rip laughed. “Did you chase them and their Marlboros away? Those may not have been Marlboros.”

  “They were on expensive bikes, Rip. Not the cheap thrift store ones. Eric can’t swing that kinda money cutting lawns.”

  “Then ask him if he’s dealing again,” Rip said. “I’ll ask him for you if you want.”

  “Yeah, right,” Heather said. “Every time he sees you, he thinks you’re going to cloud up and rain all over him.”

  Rip smiled. He hadn’t used that line in years, but was pretty sure Eric was scared to death of him. “You should just ask him and see if he’s dealing. Take his temperature and see how he responds. It’s your job, isn’t it?”

  “I did,” Heather said. “But he laughed at me. And then I asked him where he got the money for the bikes.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He told me he heard his kids yelling for him one morning. Said he went outside and the kids were on the bikes. Said someone just left them in the garage.”

  “And you bought that?”

  “Not really,” Heather said, giving him a frank stare. “The only place that sells those types of bikes within a hundred miles didn’t report any stolen. They also said that they sell so many, no particular purchases stood out. But back to last night, did Judi tell you about the gift cards the prowler left?”

  “Yeah,” Rip said, glancing at Judi, who shrugged.

  “The gift cards are worth a heckuva lot more than the bikes,” Heather said. “But the way this guy left them for that woman sorta reminded me of what Eric said about the bikes just showing up in his garage.”

  “Who around here has that kind of money to just drop off at someone’s house?” Judi asked, setting a plate of barbecued chicken on the table. Andy came back into the kitchen.

  “The only person I can think of is Kevin Hart,” Heather said.

  Rip rolled his eyes the way Andy did.

  “Seriously,” Heather added. “Who else can toss that kind of money around?”

  “No way,” Rip said. “Kevin Hart wouldn’t do that unless it was videotaped for the town to see. Either that or he would call a press conference and humbly announce what he did.”

  “He has done a lot for this town,” Judi said. “More than he gets credit for. We should all be thankful. Particularly you, Rip.”

  “I am thankful,” Rip said.

  Hart had done a lot for Benning, and Rip really was thankful. But something about Judi and the word thankful being in the same room sort of reminded him of the old square peg in a round hole bit. Still, she seemed to be having a decent night, so he decided not to pick on her about it.

  “No biggie,” Heather said. “We’ll figure it out. I’m sure the bikes and the gift cards are probably just a coincidence. Besides, Kevin Hart isn’t exactly the type to go around breaking into houses.”

  FIVE

  Judi had been up since dawn. She rarely slept anymore.

  There was something about summer vacation that always made things worse. Andy had been in a hurry to get on his motorcycle, and the minute he finished his breakfast, he had taken off, leaving her in the lonely house.

  She had vacuumed and dusted the entire downstairs before polishing the kitchen’s wooden floor. She couldn’t decide why she had never sold the big old house. Despite its beauty and location, it was easily four times the house she and Andy needed.

  Moreover, it was the centerpiece of every bad memory she had.

  She sat at the kitchen table and sighed. It was impossible for her to be in the kitchen and not think about the day Andy was burned. She stared dreamily at the door that led to the basement. She shook her head and sighed again. They had never been able to find hinges and paint that matched the doors in the rest of the house to repair it.

  Judi stood and went to the kitchen window. It was sunny again, and she raised the screen, inviting the little breeze that came off the lake into the house. It felt good and she closed her eyes, hoping . . . praying that it would somehow push away the cloud that had hung over her for so long.

  She took a deep breath and forced herself to smile, thinking about Andy when he left. His Detroit Lions T-shirt was on backward and when she pointed it out to him, he didn’t even entertain the idea of fixing it. He just shook his head at her and put the new helmet on. Even though it was a long shot that he’d give her one, she asked him for a hug, he declined, and then he ran as fast as he could out the door, with Milo trailing him all the way to the garage.

  She could still see him, crouched forward, as he jetted down the driveway and up the side of the road toward town, not having the faintest idea that Milo continued to chase him.

  She stepped back from the window and noticed her breathing had gone shallow again.

  Though school had only been out a couple days, she was already anxious to get back to work. Being around people helped take her mind off things. At least some of the time.

  She and Andy hadn’t seen Todd in over five years. When he first left, he called about once a week, then gradually once a month, and eventually, only on Andy’s birthdays. But he hadn’t called yesterday. Had Andy noticed?

  She closed her eyes and thought about the way mornings used to feel. They even smelled different. Fresh orange juice, buttery toast, and the scent of Todd’s aftershave that lingered after he kissed her and Andy good-bye.

  They had tried to do everything right, according to the age-old manual. Have a high-school sweetheart. Go to college and graduate. Marry your high-school sweetheart. Have and raise healthy babies. Retire and ride off into the sunset together.

  But things didn’t work out as planned.

  She turned and glanced back at the basement door. Then she tucked the memory under a rug somewhere in her mind, knowing it would come right back out tomorrow as it always did.

  Heather had been the first to notice the bruises and put it together with Judi’s growing unhappiness at home. She’d begged Heather not to arrest Todd. After all, he’d been under so much stress with work that year, and she had not been much of a wife to him, mostly just a mother to Andy. Raising a child took a l
ot out of her. But she should have done better.

  Heather had kept her promise. She didn’t arrest Todd.

  She did something much worse.

  She told Rip.

  At the time, Judi had no idea that Rip suspected Todd was abusing her, before the day Andy was burned.

  Judi pushed the images away again. She shook her head, exhaled loudly, then went and looked in the bathroom mirror.

  Who’d want you? You’re thirty-seven years old. Your life is behind you. You had your once-in-a-lifetime shot at love and a normal family. You blew it. It wasn’t Todd’s fault. It wasn’t Rip’s fault. It’s all yours. Even the burn on Andy’s face. No wonder he doesn’t talk to you anymore. You were a bad mother. A bad wife. A failure.

  The phone rang, forcing her back to the present.

  “We have a little problem,” Heather said, without a hello.

  “What’s wrong?” Judi asked.

  “It’s Andy’s motorcycle.”

  “No,” she said, her heart pounding in a cold thud. “Please tell me Andy’s not hurt.”

  “He’s fine,” Heather said. “For now.”

  “Thank God,” Judi said. And then she could hear the whining of the motorcycle. She headed to the front door and saw Andy coming back up the side of the road. “He’s here. What’s wrong, then?”

  “It’s too fast for him, Judi.”

  Judi exhaled another breath of relief and forced a laugh. “It’s just an old dirt bike. He has been riding the little Honda for years now and hasn’t ever gotten hurt.”

  “We clocked him near the park today,” Heather said. “Believe me. Whatever Rip did to this thing, it’s different.”

  “C’mon,” Judi said. “It can’t be that fast. What was he doing? Thirty? Forty?”

  There was a pause. “Seventy-three.”

  Judi frowned. “I’m going to kill Rip.”

  Heather laughed. “Don’t worry. I already called him.”

  Rip sat on the edge of the small desk inside the custodian’s closet on the second level of Hart Industries. He closed his cell phone and snatched up the cheap cloth garden gloves he liked to wear while doing push-ups on the cement floor. Heather had called first, and then Judi interrupted him. If they thought they were going to get him to hobble Andy’s new wheels, they had another think coming, because riding, listening to his iPod, and reading books were about the only three things that the kid enjoyed doing.

  “Rip, it’s too fast. They clocked him going seventy-three. He’s gonna get hurt.”

  Seventy-three? Rip thought. Not too shabby, Andy. Not too bad at all.

  Rip laughed out loud and then reconsidered. He knew the bike had a little kick to it, but seventy-three was pushing it.

  He could hear someone coming down the stairs. He glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes before two. Only one person bailed this early—the one who didn’t need permission. Though Rip had heard Kevin Hart’s wife say at church that he normally didn’t get home until around seven or eight o’clock, he was leaving a bit later today than usual.

  “Have a good one, Mr. Hart,” Rip said, thinking about Judi’s comment from the previous day. Even though he was thankful for his job, something about calling Kevin “Mr. Hart” didn’t sit well with him. But it was required on the premises.

  “You too, Ripley,” Hart said, stopping near the door. “How many push-ups today?”

  “It’s my lunch break,” Rip said.

  “I know,” Hart said, holding out his palms like it was no big deal.

  “I try to do around eight sets of fifty every day.”

  “Good for you,” Hart said with a nod. “How does Andy like the motorcycle?”

  “Loves it.”

  “Glad I could help,” Hart said. “Not that your arms need to be any bigger, but would you mind boxing up those cans of food over in the warehouse? They’re taking up too much space and I want to get them out of here today.”

  “Sure,” Rip said, after a moment’s hesitation.

  Hart had offered up the space for a town-wide food drive, and getting the couple thousand cans that had been donated out of there today would’ve given some lucky employee about three hours of overtime. It was quite convenient that Hart didn’t pick one or two of the hourly guys. Rip was salary. All three hundred and eighty bucks a week of it.

  “I appreciate it,” Hart said. “If you get a chance over the next week, see if you can hit the boat with another coat of wax.”

  Rip hesitated again. It was one thing to do the cans as an act of charity. But waxing the guy’s boat again?

  “I’ll toss you an extra hundred if you can fit it into your schedule,” Hart said. “You know. Around your personal exercise program.”

  Rip studied him for a long moment. “No problem, boss,” he said slowly. “I’ve got you covered.”

  “Good,” Hart said, barely suppressing his gloating. “I’m heading out to Tecumseh for a few days next week. Gonna be down there ironing out the final details of the Phillips deal. Think you could have it done by the time I get back?”

  “Sure,” Rip said.

  The details to buy out Phillips Corrugated Box had been settled weeks before. Rip guessed Hart was probably just rehearsing for the conversation with his wife before he was off to party with some young thing.

  “Have fun,” Rip said.

  “Fun with what?” Hart asked.

  “With the details.” Rip grinned. He had a feeling Hart knew exactly what he meant.

  “Let me worry about that,” Hart said with a suspicious look. “Get those cans out of there. Today.”

  SIX

  Andy had been up in his bedroom, staring at the ceiling and listening to his iPod. He was also trying to figure out what would be the best way to get Uncle Rip to convince his psycho mom that his new motorcycle was safe.

  Five years ago, Uncle Rip would have straightened Mom out in a second, but now Andy wasn’t sure. Uncle Rip wasn’t anywhere near as cool as he’d been before he went to prison. Now he’d probably just dish out some lecture on how going fast wasn’t “the right thing to do.”

  The more Andy thought about it, “the right thing to do” looked more like finding out where Dad was and convincing him to let Andy live with him. Mom was nuts and he completely understood why Dad never came around much. His father had always kept it real, and Andy would never forget the “man-to-man” talk he and his father had at the Detroit Tigers game on his eighth birthday. Andy was sitting behind the Tigers’ dugout, wearing his brand-new mitt and promising his father to never talk to Mom about the real reason they divorced.

  That was when Dad told him it’d been because she had burned his face. No wonder she never wanted to talk about it.

  Andy sat up in the bed and took out his earbuds. He got up, practically stepped on Milo, who quickly sprang up on all three legs, then walked over to his dresser and stared at the neatly framed picture of him with Dad and Mom. They were sitting at the picnic table in the backyard. Andy guessed he was about two years old. It was the only photo in the house where all three of them were smiling, and every time he looked at the picture, he wondered what had gone wrong, what terrible thing happened that made his mother do the things she did.

  Why me? Why did Mom throw that water at me? I never did anything to hurt her.

  Andy opened the top drawer and stared inside. To the left was the hardcover copy of The Hunchback of Notre Dame the library didn’t know he had. To the right, sitting neatly on top of old comic books of Batman, Captain America, and Spider-Man, was the little mirror with the brown wooden handle. Andy wondered how many times in his life he had held it.

  He pulled his hair forward and then took out the mirror to look at himself. He liked the color of his dark brown hair. It was the same color as Dad’s and it made his eyes seem not just blue, but really blue.

  He faked a smile. Andy really liked the shape of his teeth and then he studied the two tiny bumps on his forehead. So what if he had a couple tiny zits? Half the
kids in middle school last year were playing connect the dots with their complexions.

  But zits go away.

  The fake smile faded. He grabbed a handful of hair and pulled it back away from the left side of his face and neck. Even after two surgeries, the scar still looked awful. It began just above the center of his ear. It was shiny and pink and covered with what looked like hundreds of thin white scratches. It widened as it went down his cheek, looking like a bell-shaped spiderweb that seemed to rest on his jawline. From there, three ugly streaks, about an inch wide and five inches long, reached down toward his collarbone like fleshy wet fingers.

  Andy put the mirror back and pushed his hair forward.

  Mom had always said that, despite the burn, he was beautiful and that God made him just the way He wanted.

  What a flippin’ idiot.

  He would never forgive her.

  Rip grabbed the pizza box off the passenger seat of his 1979 Pacer and looked straight through the windshield. Andy’s dirt bike was centered perfectly at the top of the driveway—Judi’s way of letting him know it was in need of some attention. He laughed and got out of the car.

  Andy came bolting out the front door. He had his helmet on with the visor up and was halfway across the yard before you could say Evel Knievel.

  “Mom’s being an idiot,” he said, coming to an abrupt halt. He then raised his arm and pointed at the motorcycle. “She says we have to slow it down or I can’t ride it.”

  “I know,” Rip said. He put his arm around Andy’s shoulder, pulling him close. “But what’s this I hear about you flying through town at the speed of sound?”

  Andy looked out at the lake, then back to him. “Don’t let her ruin this for me.”

  “Take it easy on your mom,” Rip said. “She just doesn’t want you to get hurt.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry, bro. You’ll be back in the saddle before you know it.”

  “’Bout time you got here!” Judi yelled. She was wearing another boring white sundress that made her look around sixty instead of thirty-seven. Her hands were on her hips and she clearly wasn’t too thrilled with him.