1
Heathcliff
It’s fucking miserable outside. Rain dashes against the windows, like some god is tossing bucketfuls of the sea over the land—a storm off the coast, moving inland. We’re only an hour’s drive from Hunting Island, so we get the storms quick and hard, before they’ve had time to go gentle.
I’m nursing a beer. Running my thumb up the slick amber glass, watching condensation pool along my nail, then slide down in fat drops. The TV’s off, and I’m just chilling, listening to the rain. I like the way it sounds, hammering against the windows, as if it wants to be let in.
A log on the fire pops and splits, its edges crumbling. I shake myself a little, tip the bottle against my lips for another swallow. Lockwood microbrew, dark and smooth and rich. Best in the county.
Then a door slams and I startle for real. Feet stomp through the big house, and Hindley storms into the living room. I’m a couple inches taller, but he’s thickly built, his broad body stretching out the dirty white tank top he’s wearing. He rakes a hand through his greasy, red hair.
“What you doin’, boy?” he growls.
“Watching the rain.”
“Fucking weirdo. Get up. We’ve got a job to do, a big one. Gonna need your mojo.”
I gulp my beer again. “You gotta be more specific. You talking my rizz or the other thing?”
“The other thing. Get your ass off the chair and let’s go. His tattoo’s almost six months old, probably near faded by now, so it’s gonna be a tough one.”
“Faded?” I rise slowly. “What do you mean? Faded after six months?”
“This ain’t no ordinary guy, okay? He’s something different.”
“What kind of different?”
“Didn’t ask. Money was good. He’s one of the customers who pay for the roof over your goddamn head, so get your jacket and let’s go!”
“Fine, fine. Keep your panties on.” I swallow the last of the beer and hurl the bottle into the fireplace. It smashes, and the flames leap for a second.
“You’ll be cleaning that up,” warns Hindley.
“Sure.” I grab my jacket off a peg in the hall and follow him outside, hunching down under the pelting rain. The truck door creaks loudly as I pull it shut, and the engine coughs as Hindley tries to start it. I want to ask why Hindley doesn’t buy a new truck, if our clients pay so well. But I know where the money goes—trips to Vegas, online gambling, whiskey poured down his throat, and coke sniffed up his nose. There’s a whole bunch of ways to make yourself poor real quick, and Hindley’s an expert at all of them.
“How far away is this guy we’re supposed to raise?” I ask over the roar of the motor as the truck finally starts.
“Hour and a half. Then we go by boat.” Hindley clears his throat. “He’s on the island. At the old Lockwood mansion.”
“Why is a client of yours at the Lockwood mansion? And why the fuck is he lying dead there?”
“He’s a friend of the guy who bought the house off the family a while back. As for how he died, you know that’s none of our business. We do the job. That’s it. We ain’t detectives.”
He’s getting too riled, so I switch to a safer question. “How long has he been dead?”
“Couple of hours, maybe? I was busy. Didn’t feel my tattoo buzzing until now.”
“Shit, Hindley. You were high, weren’t you?”
“Shut up.” His hand flies before I can stop it, cuffing the side of my face. “You may be drinkin’ age now, but I can still whup you, got it?”
“Whatever you say,” I mutter, glaring out my window. A dull pain blooms through my cheekbone. He knows I’m stronger than him. Always have been. He also knows I don’t fight back. He thinks that’s weakness, but I tell myself it’s power. It’s a mercy I don’t cave his face in with a single punch.
I’m unnaturally strong. I’ve learned to manage it, but if I ever give in completely to my rage, I might kill him. And staining my soul with Hindley’s toxic blood isn’t something I want to do. So I’ve always let him use me as a punching bag, ever since we were kids. It’s a habit now. Uncomfortable…but hell, I’m used to it.
“Any idea what state the body’s in?” I ask.
“Could be bad.” He sniffs, rubs a hand across his eyes, and peers through the streaming windshield and the swishing wipers.
