Five minutes later, Ledge was again pushing the broom across the barroom floor. A customer who had bid everyone a good night and left rushed back inside, breathless. “Guess Morg spouted off to the wrong man tonight. He’s lying out there by his truck, beat to a pulp.”

Henry rushed outside to assess the situation. Don called 911. As in the wake of all violent emergencies, the next half hour had been eventful. In the midst of it, Don had noticed Ledge’s bloody, swollen knuckles and had looked at him with alarm.

Ledge mumbled, “He had it coming.”

Don had held his gaze for a moment, glanced over at Henry and, particularly, at the pair of sheriff’s deputies who were questioning him about who Morg had been playing pool with. Coming back to Ledge, Don said querulously, “Aren’t you supposed to be studying for an algebra test?”

Taking the hint, Ledge had gone to his room and lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling for almost an hour before Henry came in. He’d sat down heavily on the foot of the bed, and looked at Ledge’s bruised hands.

“How’d you get crosswise with that horse’s ass?”

“I didn’t.”

“Then why’d you send him to the hospital?”

“There’s this girl in my grade. Crystal. She’s his stepsister. Today, I caught her crying. She talked to me. Personal like.” He stared hard into Henry’s eyes, and what he had sworn to Crystal not to tell, he compelled his uncle to interpret.

“Morg messes with her?”

Ledge didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to.

“Jesus.” Henry had dragged his hand down his face and contemplated the gravity of the situation. “The girl’s name is Crystal?”

“Ivers.”

Henry repeated her name as though committing it to memory. “Is she your girlfriend?”

“Not like that.”

“This wasn’t secondhand information? She told you herself?”

Ledge just looked at him.

“Are you sure she’s telling the truth?”

The question had so angered Ledge, he’d glared at his uncle.

“Okay, okay.” Henry had tugged on his chin thoughtfully. “Could he point you out as the guy who attacked him?”

“I made sure he didn’t see me.”

“Did anybody?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I don’t think so, either. The man who found him said the parking lot was empty except for his car and one other, and no one else was around.”

“What will happen?”

“I don’t know. Let me think on what I’m going to do about this. I should turn you in. On the other hand…” He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I understand why you did it. I’d be tempted to myself.” He pondered it for a moment longer, then said, “For the time being, keep your head down, your mouth shut, and pray that the son of a bitch doesn’t die.”

“I wish he would.”

“No, you don’t, Ledge,” Henry had said, sounding angry for the first time. “No, you don’t. It’s ugly what he’s done. Damn ugly. Disgusting and criminal, and he should never see the light of day for the rest of his miserable, perverted life. But you can’t be his judge and jury. You can’t go taking matters into your own hands.”

“Nobody else did.”

“No, but…but…Aw, hell. There’s no arguing with you when you think you’re right. In that respect you’re just like my brother was.” He’d spoken with both gruff annoyance and affection.

“Please promise me that from now on, when you want to set a wrong situation right, you’ll talk it over with me first. We’ll figure out a way to fix it that doesn’t involve you drawing blood. Promise?”

That was the second promise that Ledge had been called upon to make that day. He’d upheld his promise to Crystal never to reveal her secret. To an extent. He hadn’t told about Morg out loud. But he’d intimated enough that his uncle had read between the lines.

Although he and Ledge had never mentioned it again in all the years since, Henry must have reported the abuse to CPS, the cops, something, because when Morg had recovered enough to be released from the hospital, he’d left it manacled and in police custody.

Crystal and her mother were persuaded by the authorities to testify against him. He stood trial and was convicted. Only three months into his prison sentence, another inmate had done the world a favor by jamming a shiv into Morg’s left kidney, killing him.

Ledge could justify fudging a bit on his promise to Crystal, because it had served to liberate her and her mother from the degenerate. However, he’d flat broken the promise he had made his uncle Henry. After leaving the diner on that rainy Saturday morning, he should have gone straight to Henry and told him about Rusty’s mad plan to burglarize Welch’s. He hadn’t. That had been costly bad judgment, which he was still paying for.

To this day. To this moment.

Crystal covered his hand resting on her knee with her own. “Memory lane is a dangerous neighborhood, Ledge. Why don’t you stay out of it?”

“I wish I could. I can’t.”

“What’s happened? What’s the matter?”

He pulled his hand from beneath hers. “The night I got arrested for the second time, when all that weed was found in my car? Remember?”

Caution clouded her eyes. “What about it?”

“Was Rusty with you that night?”

Her expression became guarded. “That was twenty years ago.”

“I know exactly how long ago it was, Crystal. Please answer the fucking question.”

She hesitated, then left the sofa, went over to a bar cart, and uncapped a bottle of bourbon.

“I don’t want a drink.”

“It’s not for you, it’s for me.” She poured and carried the glass of neat whiskey over to him. “But you’ll probably need one, too.”

He took the glass from her but didn’t drink from it. She returned to the bar and poured another for herself. “Yes, Rusty came to my house that night. My old house. Mother was asleep. He knocked on my bedroom window and threatened to raise a ruckus that would wake the dead if I didn’t let him in.”

“What time was that?”

“Lord, Ledge, I don’t remember.”

“Try.”

“Why is it so important?”

“What time?”

“Late. One, one-thirty. Thereabout. And I couldn’t swear to that. I was too astonished by the condition he was in.”

“What condition?”

She gave him a withering look. “Like you don’t know.”

Matching her pique, he thumped his untouched drink onto the coffee table. “Please stop making me repeat my questions. Describe his condition.”

She took a quick sip of her whiskey. “He was all banged up. His jaw had a fist-sized bruise. Here.” She pressed her knuckles against her jawline in front of her ear. “His lower lip was split open. His left arm was black-and-blue, swollen twice its normal size. I assumed that it was broken. An assumption that was later confirmed. He was in a lot of pain. Anxious. Sweating profusely.”

The more she told him, the more incredulous Ledge became. She wasn’t describing Rusty as Ledge had last seen him that night, getting out of his car and taking the canvas bag of cash with him. He hadn’t been battered and bruised. He’d been his whole and healthy, arrogant, asshole self.

“Did he tell you what had happened to him?”

Her eyes remaining on him, she said softly and with empathy, “Yes, Ledge, he did. There’s no need for you to pretend anymore. I know what you two did that night.”

Chapter 20

That night in 2000—Crystal

What in God’s name happened to you?”

After letting Rusty in through her bedroom window, Crystal spoke in a stage whisper out of fear of waking up her mother. Morg was gone for good, but her mother still slept fitfully.

Rusty shouldered Crystal aside and went to sit on her bed, cradling his arm against his abdomen. “Get me something to drink.”

“I don’t have any alcohol.”

“Nothing? None?”

“Nothing. None.”

“Who doesn’t keep a bottle for emergencies?”

“Since Morg was put away, Mother’s gone apostolic.”

Rusty swore under his breath. “Percocet?”

She shook her head. “Nothing like that. Your arm looks broken. You need a doctor.”

“No.”

“But—”

“Not now! Okay?” He grimaced with pain. “You must have aspirin. Advil?”

“I’ll drive you to the ER.”

“For godsake, Crystal, will you give it up? I can’t go right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t.”

“What happened?”

“Your boyfriend happened, that’s what.”

“Ledge?”

“Ledge,” he repeated, mimicking her astonishment. “You gotta have a fucking aspirin.”

“Shh! All right.”

She left the room and slipped down the hallway, moving as silently as possible past her mother’s closed bedroom door. Using only the nightlight in the bathroom, she took a bottle of Advil from the medicine cabinet and rinsed out the toothbrush glass. She made it back to her bedroom without being detected.

In her absence, Rusty had switched on the bedside lamp. In its dim glow, he looked ghastly. He had smeared the blood dripping from his mouth across his chin. Drops of blood speckled the front of his shirt. He continued to hold his left forearm against his middle.

With his uninjured hand, he lifted his shirttail and inspected the damage done to his midsection. There were abrasions. A large, dark bruise had blossomed between the bottom of his rib cage and his pelvic bone.