Exposure by Susan Andersen Read Free Book Online

Mackey.
    It was an odd pairing: the rebellious, bound-for-hell son of a prostitute and the Midas-golden only son of one of Port Flannery"s most respectable families. But the two boys met on the first day of kindergarten, hit it off, and as far as they were concerned, that was that. It didn't matter what the adults thought about it. They'd been inseparable ever after.
    It was to Sam that Elvis inevitably went when he found himself locked out of his own house because his mother was "entertaining." Enraged, hurting, he'd climb the tree in the Mackeys' back yard and let himself into Sam's room. The welcome he found there was the only outlet he could count on for the myriad emotions that roiled inside him. Dangerous as a pressure cooker with no safety valve, sometimes Elvis simply holed up for the night, brooding and planning trouble. Sam smuggled him food, talked to him, allowed him to let off steam, and tried to discourage the most reckless of his plans. When Elvis' pain drove him out looking for trouble anyway, Sam generally went along to exert what damage control he could.
    And so it was the night Sheriff John Bragston changed the direction Elvis' life was taking.
    * * * * *
    "C'mon, Elvis; let's go back to my place," Sam suggested, shoving his hands into his jacket's pockets.
    He could see his every breath form an icy, vaporous cloud in front of his face, and stamped his feet in place to keep the circulation going. "This is crazy, man," he grumbled. "I'm freezing my ass off here."
    He was sixteen years old. Granted there weren't many things to do on the island on a Friday night. But there were at least half a dozen warmer things than watching his friend impatiently chuck aside half the stuff in the jumble that comprised the Donnelly tool shed. Losing patience, he finally growled, "What the hell you lookin' for, anyway?"
    "This." Elvis straightened up, hefting a sledgehammer into view.
    Sam's heart sank. "Oh, shit, Elvis, what're you gonna do with that?"
    "Destroy the fucker's car."
    "Nooo." But he could see he was wasting his breath. There was blind determination on Elvis' face and Sam swore roundly. "Dammit, man, trust me on this one," he urged. "This is not a good idea. You don't wanna do this." Ramming his fingers through his blond hair, he followed Elvis out of the tool shed and around the corner of the Donnelly house to where Lee Overmyer had parked his distinctive orange station wagon out of sight of anyone driving past on Emery Road.
    Sam grabbed Elvis by the arm and said with quiet earnestness, "Bragston's gonna throw your ass in jail for this, E. Don't do it."
    Elvis' blue eyes burned like gas flames as he stared down at his friend. "He's got a nice wife and three kids, Sam, and he's in there screwing my mother," he said furiously. "You can bet that tonight he's tcllin' liei, 'Baby, you're the greatest.' " Lips stiff, he added flatly, "Tomorrow he'll guffaw with his buddies and call her a whore." Which was what she was—he knew that's what she was. But still . . .
    "It's either this or kneecap the son of a bitch," he said honestly.
    "Shit." Sam expelled the breath he'd sucked in deep. He let go of his friend's arm. "Destroy the fucker's car," he said in resignation.
    Elvis swung the hammer at the headlights, feeling a rush of savage gratification as, one after the other, they exploded in a hail of noise and shattered glass. He could hear the sudden scramble of feet hitting the floor and raised voices inside his house, but he knew that without backup Overmyer wouldn't come out to confront him. He had six inches and forty pounds on the older man easily, not to mention that he'd relish the opportunity to really mix it up.
    Systematically, Elvis' hammer took out all of the glass in the vehicle; then he started in on the back fender.
    Sheriff Bragston must have been in the neighborhood when the dispatcher forwarded Overmyer's complaint, because in record time lights from the department's car were sweeping the yard as it