Bad Parts Read online

  15

  Ash shoved open the front door and called out to Trent. In the kitchen she spotted a doe-eyed woman with glasses and a frumpy haircut sitting at the table. The woman, who appeared to be in her forties, forced a smile and rose from her chair. She pinched at her crucifix necklace, clutching it as though Ash were Satan’s envoy.

  “Hi, there!” the woman said in a fake-nice voice. She offered her hand. “You must be Ash.”

  Ash shook the woman’s hand. It was moist with sweat.

  “I’m Lauren.” She cleared her throat. Her breath smelled of peppermint. “Nice to meet you, sister-in-law.”

  “Sister-in… Oh. Wow.” Ash vaguely remembered Dad texting her years ago about Trent having a kid. This appeared to be the baby mama. “Where’s Trent?”

  “Listen,” Lauren whispered, “you should probably give him some space. He’s not rea—”

  “Trent? Trent! Where you at?” Ash checked the den, expecting to see him lounging with his leg propped up. Instead a kid was lying on the couch. He was kinda cute, like a mini-Trent with sunglasses. Headphones plugged his ears, and clutched to his chest was an old-school iPod, one with a click wheel. She opened her mouth to ask what he was listening to when the back door rattled open.

  Trent limped inside.

  Though she tried not to look, her eyes gravitated toward the cane he hunched over. He spotted her and immediately shifted his weight onto his good leg and stood tall, throwing his shoulders back. He scowled beneath his shaggy black hair, his eyes burning. Ash swallowed, feeling the room’s temperature rise.

  With a sideways nod, Trent signaled her to join him outside.

  She followed him out, her hand concealed in her purse. They stood in the rocky mud beside the door, their designated smoking spot back in high school. As if reading her mind, he offered her a crumpled pack of Newports.

  “I quit,” she said.

  “So did I,” he said.

  He shook the cigs at her. She felt too guilty to refuse and poked one between her lips. He lit it and she took a pull, making sure not to inhale. The smoke was dry and harsh but welcome.

  “Why’d you quit?” he asked.

  “Couldn’t afford it,” she said, tapping her cig over the dirt. Smoking out here was undeniably nostalgic. Almost like adulthood had never happened. “These days I invest everything in my band.”

  “Yeah? How’s that going?” His tone was edgy, jealous.

  “Good.” She swallowed. “We’re opening for Deathgrip on Friday.”

  “Really? You flying me down?”

  She couldn’t tell if he was joking. To be safe, she took him literally. “Wish I could.”

  “Don’t bullshit me.” Trent dropped his cig and stomped it out with his cane. “You’d sooner cancel the show than have me anywhere near that place.”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong.”

  “Oh yeah? Then why haven’t I heard anything from you in a decade? Not a call, not a text, not a card on our fucking birthday. Ever since you skipped town like a little crybaby, it’s been all silence.”

  She opened her mouth and closed it again. She couldn’t find the right words.

  “Know what? Don’t bother answering.” He turned, facing the woods beyond the backyard. “Just get outta here, okay? You ditched me and Dad once before. Do us a favor and do it again.”

  “I never ditched you.”

  “Hah. Right.”

  “I left because I caught Dad burying a corpse. It freaked me out.”

  “Bullshit. You got sick of taking care of me. That’s the reason. Driving me to physical therapy, helping me rehab my leg—that shit cut into your guitar time. God knows, nothing’s more important than that.”

  That last part stung. When he put it that way, she felt like a callus bitch. He wasn’t entirely wrong either. Back then, she had wanted to escape the rehab routine. Not because she wanted to strum chords but because seeing him like that every day—crippled and miserable—made her want to smash herself to pieces.

  “I fucked up my hand,” she said abruptly.

  He blinked. “What?”

  She lifted it from her purse. The palm throbbed inside the cast as she held it out to him. The scowl melted off his face.

  “Jesus,” he said, studying the damage. “What happened?”

  She told him everything, starting with Ski-mask and ending with Snare’s offer.

  Meanwhile, Trent burned through another cig and tapped his cane in anxious anticipation. When she finished, he blew out a long, smoky sigh. “Sounds like you’re taking Snare’s deal.”

  “Yeah.” She chewed her lip. “Gotta find someone for the leg.”

  “Good luck.”

  “I was thinking you, Trent.”

  “Yeah, no shit,” he snapped. “But I’m not doing it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not getting stuck in this town like Dad.”

  “You won’t be stuck if this deal’s legit.”

  “That’s a big if.”

  “Trent—”

  “Face it, Ash. You’ve already ruined my life once. Let’s not go for two.”

  Her cheeks burned. “I’m trying to make up for it.”

  “By setting me up with some demon that enslaves people? Wow, you’re too good to me.”

  When he put it that way, she no longer felt so sure about the deal. Snare indeed had a shaky track record. Still, Ash had no other options if she wanted to take the stage on Friday. Maybe Trent could ignore the offer, but she couldn’t.

  “If you change your mind, hit me up.”

  She moved toward the door.

  “Hang on.” He lifted his cane, blocking her. “Did Snare mention eyes?”

  “Eyes?”

  “Yeah.” He lowered his voice. “If it has an extra hand, what about extra eyes?”

  “What for?”

  “My kid.”

  For a moment she didn’t understand. Then it hit her. Those sunglasses on the kid’s face—he didn’t wear them to be cool. He needed them for the same reason Stevie Wonder needed them.

  “Wait,” she said, “your son’s blind?”

  Trent nodded.

  “Was he born like that?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then how’d he go blind?”

  “Can you get extra eyes or not?”

  “I…can try.”

  “Try hard,” he said, tossing his cig. “Otherwise I’m not sticking my leg in that creek.”

  16

  Karl stabbed his shovel at the cold hard dirt. Maybe it had something to do with the massive pines surrounding him, but he felt small. Too small for the task ahead. He set his feet and struck the soil repeatedly, working up a sweat before he finally produced a dent. Once the dent widened to a crack, he wedged the spade inside and pushed down hard. His arms burned and his back ached, but with enough pressure, the soil budged.

  Finally.

  What a day to dig. Up till now, Traders had only died in the milder months. Digging graves was no picnic in any season, but today Karl struggled big time.

  After a dozen scoops, he wiped his brow and glanced at the body bag lying behind him. The faint stench of death made his heart heavy. Things would only get worse once Mac’s family called to ask about him. Karl would have to stage a pretend search, follow pretend leads, and ask pretend questions. Fake, fake, fake. Nobody would find the body—not this deep in the woods—and he’d eventually declare Mac a missing person.

  Then life would return to normal.

  Normal.

  Karl hated normal. Normal had worn him down for thirty years, and aside from Candace and the Downhill Diner’s great coffee, normal gave him little to look forward to. Normal meant keeping secrets, losing sleep, and rarely seeing his kids. Even now, with Trent and Ashlee both home for the first time in forever, here he was, separated from them. That’s normal for you.

  As he shoveled, Karl wondered what would happen when he himself died. He might be discovered by a non-Trader, s
omeone who’d be baffled by his vanished knees. More likely, though, a Trader would find him. Then someone would haul him out here, dig a grave, and dump him like a sack of potato skins.

  No funeral, no blessing, no headstone.

  The thought chilled him. He dropped the shovel. His hands shook as he reached for it.

  He didn’t want to die in Hollow Hills. Not even with Candace at his side. He wanted out. Thirty years was enough. And while Candace was right that Snare’s offer was suspicious, Karl had a hunch that Snare wanted out as badly as he did.

  A crunching noise alerted him. He spun in anxious circles, worried that Bill Werner—or whoever’d abducted Mac—was closing in.

  The pines shook. Karl held still and listened to a rustling breeze.

  Probably rodents, he told himself. Besides, what would Mac’s killer gain by being out here? The sooner I put Mac’s body in the ground, the better off the killer is.

  Karl resumed digging, but at a slower pace.

  The Traders were getting older, he realized, and there would soon be more burials. No telling how many more missing persons they could afford to report before somebody opened an investigation.

  “Might be time to pack up and leave,” he said, glancing at the bag. “What do you say, Mac?”

  Mac, of course, didn’t reply. A breeze crinkled the plastic, but Karl didn’t regard a flapping body bag as a special sign, just sad reality. He wished he’d stood up to Candace and sent Mac to the hospital. Maybe she was right about the man’s brain being fried beyond saving, but it still felt wrong.

  More wrong than usual.

  “Sorry, fella,” he said with a lump in his throat. “Should’ve called it in. Should’ve—”

  That crunching sounded again. Louder this time.

  Karl spun around, clutching his shovel.

  Eyes wide, he crept through the woods. Every time he rounded the edge of a tree, his heart raced. Joggers never came out this far, so it had to be someone familiar with the Traders. Possibly someone who knew about Mac. Whoever it was should’ve announced themselves by now. The lingering silence was bothering him. Eating him. If he spotted a stranger, he would drop them with a smack to the head. No hesitation.

  Assuming they didn’t see him first.

  He kept his ears open. Every drip of melted snow turned his head. Suddenly a crunch sounded behind him. Over by the grave.

  He lifted the shovel, ready to strike the unseen trespasser. He darted from behind a shaggy pine, gripped the handle with both hands, and chopped sideways, cutting through the air with a hiss. As his arms followed through, he recognized his target’s leather sleeve and the cast poking out from it.

  He pulled short like an MLB slugger checking his swing. Thank God. He sighed, half-relieved and half-mortified at the sight of his daughter.

  Ashlee turned from the grave to face him. “Thought I’d find you here.”

  The last time she saw a body bag in these woods, she’d screamed at him, skipped town, and bunked with an ex-bandmate in Philly. He didn’t hear from her for ten years. Now, staring at Mac’s body bag, she seemed unmoved. Maybe it was maturity. Maybe she was desensitized. Most likely, though, she was behaving because she wanted something.

  Karl cleared his throat. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

  “Who’s in the bag?” she asked.

  “John MacReady.” He checked between the pines, hoping nobody followed her. “Fella worked at the banquet hall. Candace found him dead in his car yesterday morning.”

  “Dead from what?”

  Karl met her eyes. “This stays between us, but Candace and me think somebody drove Mac outta the zone for his parts.”

  “Ouch. What did he trade?”

  “His kidneys.”

  “Kidneys?” Ashlee’s jaw fell. “Dad, Snare requested them.”

  “I know.” All that talk about Snare requesting parts made him both curious and uneasy. He hated thinking about it. “Listen, Ashlee. You should head back. Don’t want you getting caught out here.”

  “I don’t want you getting caught out here,” she said. Her concern lifted his heart. “Seriously, Dad. How many more of these graves can you get away with?”

  Good question. He’d been asking himself roughly the same thing minutes ago. He still didn’t have an answer.

  “You can’t keep this up forever,” she said.

  “Won’t argue there.”

  It dawned on him that this passed for civil conversation. Big milestone for them. All it took was an unlawful burial to bring them together.

  “You talk to Trent?” he asked.

  “He said he’ll trade his leg only if his kid gets new eyes. By the way, what happened to the kid?”

  “Long story.”

  “Well, when I visit Snare, I’ll ask for extra eyes.” She paused, waiting for his reaction.

  He swallowed hard. If they could somehow restore little Jake’s vision, that might be worth the gamble of trusting Snare. Plus, Trent and Ashlee could get new parts, and Karl himself could pound the gas pedal all the way home to Pittsburgh.

  “I see.” He pried at the earth, rocking his shovel back and forth. He’d barely made progress. “Be careful.”

  “Will you help me?”

  “Help you?”

  “Candace is ignoring my calls like a bitchy old diva. Could you convince her to shut down the cameras?”

  He tossed a shovelful. Chewing his lip, he stared at the grave. “Best not to bother Candace.”

  “Please, Dad. She’ll listen to you.”

  “She won’t.” He set his shovel aside. “But that’s okay.”

  Her eyebrow rose. “How so?”

  “You don’t need her permission.” He grabbed his phone. “She’s not the only one with access to them cameras.”

  17

  Ash stood over the creek bend. This time she refused to kneel. The waters clicked along, reflecting her normal, everyday self. That would change once Dad killed the cameras. Then her big moment would come. She would make a counteroffer. Since Snare needed her, Ash deserved a signing bonus upfront. The bonus would be her hand. Only when she had five fretboard-ready fingers would she gather Snare’s requested parts. There would be no deal otherwise.

  “Ashlee, you’re set!” Dad yelled from behind the thicket. “Careful now.”

  Below, her reflection changed. Average-Ash rippled away, revealing her stunning, ideal self. Once again, the sight mesmerized her. If she could look like that, her face would dominate every music website and magazine in existence. Goddess-level looks to match goddess-level talent. But she didn’t need looks. Just her hand.

  This is it. Showtime.

  “Snare,” she said. “Let’s talk.”

  Ash waited for the mist to take her tongue. None came. She parted her lips but felt nothing. The silence irritated her. She didn’t buy the idea that Snare was too weak for conversation.

  “Talk.”

  No answer.

  The muscles in her neck tightened. Her heart galloped. She wondered if Snare’s mist had limited range. Though she didn’t want to kneel like a beggar, she might have to. Lowering herself to one knee, she repeated her demand and got the same result. She leaned closer, nose-to-nose with her reflection. Dirty vapor clogged her nostrils, but no magic mist.

  “Wake up!” Ash called, growing impatient. The creek remained silent. She worried that Snare might’ve decided their previous conversation was final. If that were the case, she’d be stuck with the original offer. But she reminded herself of one thing—Snare needed her help. And where there was need, there was negotiation. “Listen, I want to help you, but my hand is killing me. If you replace it now, I’ll have an easier time gathering Traders.”

  The creek flowed by.

  “Snare? You listening? I want my hand upfront. It’s only fair.”

  No response.

  “Do you want to complete your collection or not? I’m here to help, but you gotta give me my hand upfront. Also, I want extra eyes for my brot
her’s kid.”

  Still nothing.

  As the silence flowed on, dark mounds of fear filled her stomach. Ash couldn’t tell if Snare was playing games or genuinely couldn’t speak. And if Snare couldn’t speak, did that mean the ghost couldn’t hear Ash’s offer?

  “Snare! Are you listening?”

  Wind shook the pines. The November sun paled as clouds crept across the sky. It made her wonder if Snare controlled anything beyond this creek curve. The only thing Snare controlled for sure was this conversation, and that needed to change.

  “If you’re not talking, I’m out. The way things are going, I’m better off rehabbing my hand.”

  Mist tickled her lips. Finally.

  “There you are,” Ash said, masking her anxiety with a calm tone. “Why so quiet?”

  “Weak.”

  “You’re weak? If you can’t hold a conversation, how are you supposed to make me a new hand?”

  The mist dropped from Ash’s mouth, leaving dryness behind.

  Along the water’s surface a whirlpool the size of a drink coaster stirred. It lined up evenly with her left arm, which she guessed was an invitation.

  Her pulse thrumming in her ears, Ash stretched her busted hand over the water. Below, her reflected fingers looked healthy. Incredible. She never thought much about her hand, at least not aesthetically, but now it resembled something sculpted by Michelangelo. She couldn’t wait to wrap those fingers around a fretboard.

  With a nervous breath, she slid her hand through the water.

  The cold jolted her. At first the pain intensified. It felt like each finger was suffocating to death. Then the pain faded. Outright vanished. By the light of the late-morning sun, she watched her busted fingers shed their bruises. The ugly reds and purples became flesh-toned again. The swelling subsided. Skin hugged bone. All remaining discomfort flushed out with a euphoric whoosh.

  Ash exhaled.

  Shutting her eyes, she slowly withdrew her hand. The water level inside her cast dipped. It bubbled down to her wrist. Her next move would decide it. Either her hand would leave the water painlessly or the agony would surge back like last time.