But
Junior could be—it was possible—third in line.
He realized (for the first time in his life; it was a genuine flash of insight) that he was only guessing. That he might not really know his father at all.
He went back to his room and turned on the overhead. It cast an odd unsteady light, waxing bright and then dim. For a moment Junior thought something was wrong with his eyes. Then he realized he could hear their generator running out back. And not just theirs, either. The town’s power was out. He felt a surge of relief. A big power outage explained everything. It meant his father was likely in the Town Hall conference room, discussing matters with those other two idiots, Sanders and Grinnell. Maybe sticking pins in the big map of the town, making like George Patton. Yelling at Western Maine Power and calling them a bunch of lazy cotton-pickers.
Junior got his bloody clothes, raked the shit out of his jeans—wallet, change, keys, comb, an extra headache pill—and redistributed it in the pockets of his clean pants. He hurried downstairs, stuck the incriminating garments in the washer, set it for hot, then reconsidered, remembering something his mother had told him when he was no more than ten: cold water for bloodstains. As he moved the dial to COLD WASH/COLD RINSE, Junior wondered idly if his dad had started his hobby of secretary-fucking way back then, or if he was still keeping his cotton-picking penis at home.
He started the washer going and thought about what to do next. With the headache gone, he found that he
He decided he should go back to Angie’s house after all. He didn’t want to—God almighty, it was the
Yes. As fast and far as he could. But before he did, he’d come back here and visit the safe in his dad’s study. His dad didn’t think Junior knew the combo to that safe, but Junior did. Just as he knew the password to his dad’s computer, and thus about his dad’s penchant for watching what Junior and Frank DeLesseps called Oreo sex: two black chicks, one white guy. There was plenty of money in that safe. Thousands of dollars.
The money first, then. The money right now.
He went into the study and for a moment thought he saw his father sitting in the high-backed chair where he watched the news and nature programs. He’d fallen asleep, or… what if he’d had a heart attack? Big Jim had had heart problems off and on for the last three years; mostly arrhythmia. He usually went up to Cathy Russell and either Doc Haskell or Doc Rayburn buzzed him with something, got him back to normal. Haskell would have been content to keep on doing that forever, but Rayburn (whom his father called “an overeducated cotton-picker”) had finally insisted that Big Jim see a cardiologist at CMG in Lewiston. The cardiologist said he needed a procedure to knock out that irregular heartbeat once and for all. Big Jim (who was terrified of hospitals) said he needed to talk to God more, and you called that a
“Dad?”
No answer. Junior flipped the light switch. The overhead gave that same unsteady glow, but it dispelled the shadow Junior had taken for the back of his father’s head. He wouldn’t be exactly heartbroken if his dad vaporlocked, but on the whole he was glad it hadn’t happened tonight. There was such a thing as too many complications.
Still, he walked to the wall where the safe was with big soft steps of cartoon caution, watching for the splash of headlights across the window that would herald his father’s return. He set aside the picture that covered the safe (Jesus giving the Sermon on the Mount), and ran the combination. He had to do it twice before the handle would turn, because his hands were shaking.
