Shine - Lauren Myracle [42]
“Aw, now, they won’t bother you none,” Wally said. He whistled sharply and said, “Down.” The dogs dropped to their haunches and shut up.
“So Christian, this your sister?” Wally asked, gesturing at me with that dang shotgun. He leered. “You sure has growed up. Growed up real fine. Come in, come in.”
I followed Wally into his trailer. Christian was furious. I felt it coming off him. But he followed, too.
Inside, I fought not to gag. I’d seen plenty of filth in my life, but no place as filthy as this. Wally had given up on the notion of a trash can eons ago, apparently deciding the floor was as good a dumping ground as anything. My quick survey showed greasy pizza boxes, crumpled newspapers, and moldy plastic containers. Rubber tubes in random lengths. Empty aluminum foil dispensers, their sharp metal teeth waiting to bite some fool’s bare foot.
The room smelled of spoiled food, body waste, and a chemical odor I couldn’t identify. Sweet and rotten at the same time.
I must have wrinkled my nose, because Wally laughed.
“Home sweet home,” he said, gesturing with fingers that were burned at the tips. He smiled, his lips peeling back from the ugliest set of teeth I’d ever seen. They were yellow, with dark spots of decay. Quite a few were missing. “Now, what can Uncle Wally do for such a pretty gal?”
I couldn’t think what to say. I panicked, because crap, my ride through the woods hadn’t given me any ideas, and now I was a stupid little girl again. Rock Spider, Christian had called Wally, because rock spiders worried their way into small, tight cracks. I saw Gwennie and that ratty pink bathing suit she used to wear, with the elastic fallen out of one leg hole so that the fabric rode up and exposed her pale bottom cheek.
“I . . . um . . .” I was wondering if you’d share your client list with me, and by the way, are you the one who bashed in Patrick’s skull?
Wally stepped closer. He had a limp. With a wink, he said, “Are you two members of our state or federal law enforcement team? I gotta ask, you understand.”
“What? No,” I said.
“She’s not here for that,” Christian said tersely. “That so?” Wally asked me. “You a straight arrow like your brother?” He paused as a coughing spell wracked his pipe-cleaner-thin body. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. His hands shook and he leaned on his shotgun for support.
“Well, good for you. Mebbe you’ll keep your looks after all.”
Was Wally saying Christian didn’t do meth? If so, thank God for small blessings.
“If you ain’t here for that shit, what are you here for?” Wally asked.
“Oh,” I said. “About that. I just . . . I guess I just . . .”
Christian exhaled. “Come on, Cat.” To Wally, he said, “She was riding her bike. She got lost.”
Over Wally’s shoulder, I saw a cramped kitchen, with buckets in the sink like the kind Aunt Tildy used when she mopped the floor. Beyond were a short hall and a closed door.
“Can I use your bathroom?” I asked. I figured it had worked with Gwennie, so why not try with Wally?
“No,” Christian said.
Wally chuckled. “Sure you can.” He pointed. “Down the hall and through the bedroom. You want me to show you the way?”
“I can find it,” I said, just as Christian stepped between me and the hall. He took on a soldier’s stance, his arms folded over his chest and his feet spread wide.
“You can wait till we get back home.”
“No, I can’t,” I said, slipping sideways past him and fast-walking down the hall.
“Little girls got little girl parts,” I heard Wally say to Christian. “Soft and tender, them girl parts.”
“Shut up,” Christian said.
“Can’t do their business in the woods like we can, now can they?”
“Shut up,” Christian said, sounding for all the world like the growling Doberman out front.
Wally’s bedroom looked like his kitchen, but with bigger heaps of laundry. Near the bed, which was nothing but a mattress on the floor, was a pile