Trip Wire by Charlotte Carter Read Free Book Online

snatched the front door open, frantic to get away. I can’t imagine anything in the world that could have halted my forward motion other than what I spotted out of the corner of my eye. The silver peace sign that hung from the giant ring that held Wilton’s keys. There it was on one of the pegs of the coatrack. I snatched it off and kept right on going.
    I took the stairs two and three at a time, leaving Cliff behind.
    I knew how that goddamn conversation with Nat would have gone. I’d sooner be buried alive than endure his fatherly solicitude now. No matter what kind words he might have had for me, the real message behind them would have been “I told you so.” And if he’d dared suggest that Wilton somehow brought this terrible violence down on himself, I’d have gone over there and broken something over De Lawd’s woolly head.
    4
    “Jordan’s father. Why do they call him Crash?”
    “I don’t know,” Cliff said. “I guess it’s something he thought was cool to call himself.”
    “You know what?” I said. “I know they’re terrible parents and Jordan would rather be with you than live with them. But he must talk to them sometimes, right?”
    “Talk about what?”
    “About what he sees at the commune. He’s seen Barry with a lot of dope, right? Maybe he’s seen him with a wad of money, too. You think he could have told Crash and Bev stuff like that?”
    “They’re behind what happened to Mia and Wilt? Is that what you’re thinking? What—they broke in, tied up Wilt like that, tried to get him to tell them where this big wad of money was?”
    “Look, Cliff. Like you’re always saying, they’re asshole junkies . . . end of story.”
    “Yeah. Okay. But they’re too stupid to do anything like that. And too strung out.”
    “Maybe. But what if they pump the kid for information and then sell it—like snitches—to other addicts who’re more together than they are? Maybe they tip off people which apartments are easy to break into, who’s holding a supply of pills or grass or whatever.”
    He shook his head. “I don’t see it, Sandy. I don’t see Jordan telling them much of anything. He’s pretty cool for his age. And besides that, he barely even talks to me. Can’t you see what a fucked-up kid he is?”
    No point in ringing the doorbell at Crash and Bev’s place. It probably hadn’t worked in years. What you did was stand on the sidewalk and yell their names until one of them heard you and came to the window. The key was then tossed down in a filthy sock.
    It was Jordan who threw the window up and looked down at us. His eyes were big and terrified.
    Cliff hurried up the stairs. “What’s the matter?” he said as soon as the boy opened the apartment door.
    Bev, his mother, lay shivering on the couch, eyes way back in her head, her lips cracked and sore-looking. She was trying to talk, but only croaks came out.
    “Shit,” I said, “you think she overdosed?”
    “I don’t think so.” Cliff placed his palm on her forehead. “She’s sick, though. Got a real fever.”
    And she stinks, I thought as I pulled the stiff army blanket at the foot of the couch up around her shoulders.
    “It’s freezing in here,” I said.
    “Jordan, get some matches,” Cliff ordered. “See if the space heater works, Sandy.”
    “I hope they paid the gas bill,” I said.
    I got the heat working and then found a packet of dry soup mix, not happy about rooting around in their nasty cabinets. I boiled water and brought the hot drink over to the couch.
    Bev could sit up a little by then. No light in her eyes, but even in the ruin of her thin face you saw how pretty she must have been once. She sure wasn’t interested in that chicken soup, but she was too weak to lift her arm and push the cup away from her lips.
    I took the cup away from her mouth for a minute and was startled when she spoke. “Still trying to heal me, huh?”
    I had no idea what she was talking about. She began to slide back onto the sofa