Draw the Dark by Ilsa J. Bick Read Free Book Online Page B

thought that was my fault too.
    Not that I was the only one Karl hated. Two years ago, while his dad was getting back on his feet, Dekker went to live with the Schoenbergs. It had been Reverend Schoenberg’s idea, and Dekker and Sarah had maybe hooked up, I don’t know. All I
did
know was Karl made some kind of trouble and they turned him out too.
    Of course, Dekker wasn’t alone. He was never alone. He always traveled with two other guys—also sandrats, straddling their bikes and squinting up through curls of cigarette smoke. I didn’t know them, mainly because they were so . . . the
same
. Dekker was Dekker. You couldn’t mistake him for anyone else. These other guys, they could’ve been Curly and Larry or Athos and Porthos or Crabbe and Goyle. See what I’m saying? The only guy who really mattered, the only constant, was Dekker.
    “Came by to see the handiwork.” Dekker swung off his bike. “You did a pretty good job there, Killer. Not bad at all. You could be one of the real
bad
boys.”
    Curly and Larry spluttered, their mouths hanging open like dogs. Dekker said, “Come on down, Cage. You’re not scared, are you?”
    Yes
. I swallowed, suddenly aware not only of how far out of town I was but that I was half dressed and totally defenseless. I said, “I was just taking a rest.” Like that answered anything. Dekker was poking around the can of softener, and I said, stupidly, “Hey, you got to be careful with that. There’s acid in it.”
    “Ooooh.” Dekker gave a mock shudder. “What do you think I’m gonna do, stick my dick in it? Unless . . .” He dangled the can from his fingers. “What a shame if this slipped or, you know, something happened to that scaffolding there or . . .”
    “What do you want?”
    He showed his teeth. “We got something to discuss, Killer.”
    “Stop calling me that.”
    “Stop calling me that,” he mimicked and then said, “You coming down, or you gonna make me come up?”
    What choice did I have? I fished up my sloppy tee and tugged it on. It reeked and the clammy fabric made me shiver. I hated turning my back, but I had no choice if I wanted to get down. I half-expected the scaffolding to collapse at any second. When I made it down, I turned, folded my arms over my chest and said, “What?”
    “Want to talk to you about your uncle.” Streaks of black foundry grime sketched the creases in Dekker’s face, and his nails were ragged.
    “What about him?”
    “Know what he did?” Dekker leaned in. His breath stank of cigarettes. “He come by my old man’s place. Said that anything like
that
,” he hooked a thumb over his shoulder, “had to be the work of someone like me, that I musta imitated you just to get back at him.”
    To my surprise, I felt bad—and sad at the same time. Dekker was a jerk, and he was no one I wanted to be around, and he probably deserved much of what he got . . . but then, maybe, you could say that about me too.
    “I’m sorry.” I didn’t see how I could make up for anything Uncle Hank had done, though. “That wasn’t fair.”
    Dekker jabbed a finger in my chest. “Look who’s talking fair. There’s any trouble in town, your uncle comes out and sees my dad.”
    I didn’t know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut.
    “But here’s what pisses me off.” Another finger jab. “You’re the one needs watching. Ms. Stefancyzk stuck her head through that noose her own self, but who helped? Who was the kid shooting death rays into her eyes?”
    I knew where this was going: where it always went. What everyone thought in this crummy little town and talked about behind my back—
    “And when your aunt bought it, you know who came tearing down to the shop? Your uncle. Said any drunk in these parts
had
to be my dad or one of my dad’s guys. This is right before my dad got sent away, and there wasn’t nothing to those charges, they were all bogus . . .”
    “I was just a kid.” Actually, I sounded like I still
was
and that made me