Sorrow Road (Bell Elkins #5) - Julia Keller Page 0,100

purpling the world, staining the sidewalks with shadows. From down the block came the squally sounds of the Boykin kids, hollering their way through a game of hide-and-seek—or hide-and-shriek, as Harm had heard Vivian Plumley call it once, irritation in her voice, because the Boykins played it every night, at the top of their lungs. From another direction came the distant sound of a train whistle, a sound that always made Harm a little bit sad, no matter how good he had been feeling before.

All at once Frank Plumley came crashing out of the back door. The smell of alcohol clung to him, as if he had rinsed his clothes in it. His movements were loose and unsteady. A big grin was smeared across his face, like the residue from a jelly sandwich. Harm’s stomach clenched in fear. Vic’s dad always made him apprehensive, even when the man was cold sober. Drunk was much worse. Drunk made him a monster.

Before Vic could react, before he could move aside and let the old man go down the steps, Frank Plumley nailed him with a vicious, leg-swinging kick that caught him between the shoulder blades. Vic never had a chance. He crumpled up and tumbled down the steps. He landed at the bottom on his hands and knees.

“Get up,” Frank Plumley yelled down at him. His voice was loud and sloshy. “You look like a damned dog, you know that? Bow-wow! You gonna bark for me, boy? Bow-wow! Lemme hear you!”

Vic slowly got to his feet. By this time Harm and Alvie had joined him at the bottom of the steps. They were scared, but they wanted to make their allegiance clear. Their friend Vic had been totally humiliated. Normally, such humiliations came in private. But this one—well, Alvie and Harm knew full well that Vic would take it out on them later and they didn’t see anything wrong with that. Just as his father bullied him, Vic would go right on down the line and bully them. That was how it worked. It was a progression, a journey, a certitude, and it was utterly predictable, like the route of that train whose solemn whistle had chastened the world just seconds before Frank Plumley’s assault.

A few seconds passed before anything else happened. In that quick interval, something caught Harm’s eye. It was in the second-story window, up over the porch. Harm knew whose room that was: It belonged to Frank and Vivian Plumley. The window was open. The motion he had seen was the twitch of the curtain. Somebody was up there. Listening. Watching. He saw the curtain move again. And because there was a faint light up there, from a small lamp on a bedside table, he was able to see her face. It was Vivian. Her face was fluid and shiny. Both of the Plumleys had been drinking. Drinking, and doing other things, too. The idea of that inflamed him.

And then, as he was about to lower his gaze—Harm was afraid that Frank Plumley might see him looking, and might somehow guess his thoughts—Vivian opened the curtain just the slightest bit more. Just enough for Harm to see the pink silk robe she was wearing. She stared down at him. She put a finger to her lips, and she licked it. The next thing she did—God help him—was to touch her left nipple with that finger, and move the finger in a slow insinuating circle. Harm thought he might explode.

“You know what?” Frank Plumley said. Harm was forced to refocus. “Guess what. Guess what.” His words were slurred—Gethwad, Gethwad—and they were all on one string. It would have been funny, Harm thought, if it weren’t so scary. Drunks on radio shows were always funny: They knocked things over with a crash and a bang, they hiccupped and they sang songs. They were hilarious.

Frank Plumley was not hilarious.

“You’re worse than a damned dog,” he said to Vic. “You’re a murdering sonofabitch. You know that, right? You’re a goddamned killer.”

Vic stood there and took it. He had no choice. Frank Plumley wavered on the top step of the porch, swaying and listing at a dangerous angle, teetering on the edge, and Harm wondered: If Frank Plumley fell and hit his head, if he was bleeding and dying, would they help him? Would they pick him up? Or would they just leave him there to die?

We’ll just leave him there to die. The thought shot across Harm’s mind like a bolt of electricity.