7
Lynette Pike lived in a double-wide trailer on the outskirts of South Pittsburg, Tennessee. She’d lived alone for most of the past thirty-two miserable years since Irv had been killed when his log truck rolled over. Her only son, Waylon, came home from time to time, usually in between prison stays, and Lynette barely blinked when he arrived on the morning of July 5 with a tote bag in his hand and grin on his face.
She made him breakfast and wondered what he’d done this time. Waylon was always running from some kind of trouble. They barely spoke while he ate, and, despite her misgivings, Lynette was glad her boy still came home. She and Irv hadn’t been June and Ward Cleaver, but at least Waylon hadn’t left and never come back like so many of her friends’ children. When her son was in trouble, he came to see his momma, and that made Lynette happy.
And happiness, she knew damn well, was fleeting.
After he finished, he kissed her cheek and went back to his room, which she still kept clean for him, never knowing when he might drop in.
“How long you staying?” she asked.
Waylon had almost shut the door but kept it half-cracked. He shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe couple of weeks. Maybe a few days.”
“You in trouble?”
He smiled. “Love you, Momma.”
She returned the smile despite herself. “Love you too,” she said as the door closed behind him.
Waylon clicked the lock and placed the tote bag on the tiny twin bed. He took a deep breath, unzipped the container, and poured out the contents.
He giggled as stacks of hundred-dollar bills fell onto the navy comforter. Ten hundred-dollar bills per roll, and there were fifteen rolls.
“Fifteen thousand dollars,” he whispered. Exactly what he was told he’d get.
“I did it,” he said, speaking louder now as he recalled the events of the prior night when he’d shot Dr. Braxton Waters three times in the head. He’d checked the doctor’s pulse and confirmed he was dead. Then he’d kicked the poor sap’s body over the side of the dock and watched as it disappeared into the muddy water. He’d hesitated when he saw the blood on the floor by the lawn chair. Nothing he could do about that. He’d cursed under his breath when he saw that Waters’s cap had fallen over the edge and was floating in the water. He’d tried to retrieve it, but the hat had already drifted a couple feet off the dock, and Waylon didn’t want to risk jumping into the water.
“Fuck it,” he’d whispered then.
He lay down on his bed of money and imagined Jana Waters’s naked body. Her firm ass and perky breasts. She’d been a high-energy bitch and the best lay he’d ever had in his life.
And she’s made me a rich man, he thought, wrapping his hands around a wad of cash and throwing it up in the air like he was tossing a football. Waylon giggled, thinking how damn easy it had all been. “Thank you, Jana,” he said out loud, chunking another wad of bills up into the air and closing his eyes as the money landed softly on his face.
8
The holding cell stank of stale urine and body odor. Other than a cot, the only thing held within the four gray cinder block walls was a porcelain toilet.
Jana sat on the floor with her back pressed against the hard wall. She tightly gripped her knees, but that no longer helped control her convulsions. Her arms shook and her teeth chattered. Sweat streamed down her face, back, and ribs. She needed a Xanax. Craved one. But she hadn’t been given any of her prescribed medications since she was brought in.
How long had she been here? Four hours? Eight? In her mind, she replayed the moments on the dock right after her dead husband’s body was pulled from the lake.
Nola running down the pier with Jana trying to catch up. Her daughter covering her eyes and wailing at the sight of Braxton’s corpse, which was covered in mud and milfoil. Jana trying to hug Nola and being pushed away. Officers descending on mother and daughter and urging them to let the crime scene technicians do their jobs.
Then Nola in Jana’s face. Yelling. Hitting Jana’s shoulders with her fists. “This is your fault. You did this. Where were you last night? Why were you on the floor when I got home? Why weren’t you with Dad? You did it, didn’t you? You killed him!”
Jana had put her hands over her face to block the blows, but Nola’s anger had only intensified. Finally, her daughter pushed her so hard that Jana lost her footing and fell backward onto the ground. Jana looked up at Nola, holding her arms toward the child. “Nola, how could you think . . .” She’d trailed off, her voice quivering.