Gangland (The Girl in the Box Book 51), page 1
GANGLAND
The Girl in the Box, Book 51
ROBERT J. CRANE
Ostiagard Press
Gangland
The Girl in the Box, Book 51
Robert J. Crane
copyright © 2022 Ostiagard Press
1st Edition.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Interlude
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Epilogue
Teaser
Author’s Note
Other Works by Robert J. Crane
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER ONE
“Momma? Momma?” Eight-year-old Taylor Beebe asked the question plaintively, and a question it was. Would she get her mother's attention, pry it out of the grasp of all the busy and exciting things around them and capture it for her own? Or would she fail, and her mother go on ignoring her, prisoner to the colors, the sights, the sounds all around them–
The light was warm, bright, but plain white, lacking color as it glowed down from above. The crowd noise was intense, so much talking, so many people! It was not like Walmart, even, it was so busy and so colorful and yet not. There were splashes of it here and there, in the windows of the shops they passed along the promenade. But everything else – the floors, the ceiling, the walls...it was more...gray.
“I'm just glad we got it taken care of,” Daddy said. He had Taylor by one hand, Momma had her by the other. She felt the sway of the grip of her loving parents on either side, bobbed back and forth between them, applying her weight to bounce lightly. Not too heavy – Daddy would complain she was breaking his back – but just enough to have her fun. “Been weighing on me awhile.” He flashed a quicksilver smile. “Was starting to think I'd have to start this new job looking like a heathen.”
Momma glanced over at Daddy, her eyes quiet, dull. She always looked ready for a nap, Momma did, even on those occasions when she hadn't said, “Gosh, I could use a nap.” Which she said a lot. “'Least it didn't cost us an arm and a leg,” was what she said now, though the subtext was definitely that she wanted a nap.
“Just the arm,” Daddy said, giving Taylor's hand a squeeze. His other was filled with a paper bag, new clothes piled in, swaddled in crinkly paper that Taylor had played with the edges of while she waited for them to pay for his new clothes. That had been in JCPenney, and she'd wondered if JCPenney had lots of pennies. She assumed so. They had to come from somewhere, after all. Daddy looked down at her. “Thank you for being patient while we shopped, sweetie-heart.”
Taylor didn't feel patient. “Can we go to Build-A-Bear now?” She looked to Momma, where all the true authority lay.
But Momma was staring off into the distance. Always so tired. “Where do we want to eat?” she asked. “The Chinese place?”
“How about Cheesecake Factory?” Daddy asked.
Momma grunted. “It's so expensive, and we just spent–”
“Right,” Daddy said abruptly. “Food court?”
Momma's eyes scanned the walkway. It was big and with gray and white tiles, and all the beautiful stores with pretty lighted names written on them. Overhead, between the walkways, was a white-boned dome that held back the night sky with big panes of glass. Taylor stared up at it as they walked, passing a little tree in a metal pot that almost touched the glass barrier at the edge of the walkway. Below – more stores with their names lighted and written. One was pink. Very, very pink, and Taylor approved. “Sure,” Momma said at last. “Food court.”
“And then Build-A-Bear?” Taylor asked. Momma did not seem to hear her.
“And then Build-A-Bear,” Daddy said with a warm smile. She returned it. Daddy was listening. “Did you know they have cookies at the food court?”
Taylor's eyes got wide. “...Cookies?” Maybe Build-A-Bear could wait.
“What's that?” Momma asked. Taylor looked up; her eyes were tight, slitted. She was staring straight ahead, over the edge, but also down some, to the floor below. This mall was big – too big for Taylor to see everything. Her eyes got caught again on the pink-lit store, so pretty–
“Uh oh,” Daddy said, and his grip on her hand tightened. “Think we ought to go.”
“Mmhm,” Momma said, and Taylor felt a jerk as Momma pulled her hand. “Now. Now. Now–!”
Daddy scooped her up and he was running, and Taylor wanted to shout: What about food? Because her belly had started to growl at the mention of cookies. And what about the cookies? she wondered, attention flitting as her father gripped her close to his warm chest, where she could hear the beating of his heart, and feel him squeeze her tight against him. Daddy was big, Daddy was strong, Daddy was not complaining about her breaking his back as he ran, ran from the–
A big beam of red light burst through the tiles behind them and shattered its way through the glass ceiling overhead. There were screams and the sound of the walls and floors breaking, and the ceiling coming down–
“Run!” Momma screamed. “Ru–”
There was a flash of green and Momma stumbled, her legs quitting on her like she'd just run out of steam. The lights flickered, and she watched her mother stumble and fall as if in stop motion. Momma lay down as if to take that long-denied nap, her eyes dull and unmoving after one last flick at Taylor.
“Momma!” Taylor called, and her daddy slowed, looking back, half-turning. The lights cut off, this time for good. Daddy was running in the dark, and there was a bright flash of green that came and he grunted and jerked, and Taylor felt something punch him hard in the side–
He stumbled and fell, pitching over right on top of her. Taylor screamed; not just from the fall, not just from the fear, not just from the darkness.
The acrid smell of something burning reminded her of Daddy cooking steaks on the grill. All his weight was on her, and she hurt. She hurt in her legs, hurt in her belly. Something had hit them both, like a pinch but worse, so much worse than any pinch she'd ever felt.
It was like the time Caden Barnes had kicked her in the belly with all he had, but worse even than that. Something smacked her in the eye, a piece of ceiling coming down, and Taylor barely noticed.
That pain in her gut...boy, it hurt.
“Daddy,” she said, but it was whispered, and barely came out. There was a warm taste on her lips like the time she'd tripped and landed on her face. Busted her lip open. Had she busted her lip open?
Taylor saw the lights come on again. But this time they were all the colors – red, blue, green – playing across the ceiling as pieces of glass and the roof came down in a rain, a drift, a flutter like the snow last January.
It was hard to breathe. She tried to call out to Daddy, but he wasn't listening. Wasn't moving.
She'd just wanted a cookie and to go to Build-A-Bear, but that didn't seem so important now. Now she hurt, hurt so much, hurt more than she ever had. And the lights were fading. Darkening around the edges, her eyes wanting to close.
And they did, after another m oment, and Taylor Beebe went on into the dark without Momma, without Daddy, because they were no longer alive to go with her.
They were already dead.
CHAPTER TWO
Marcel Jacoby woke to a door slamming somewhere outside his apartment. He opened his eyes in darkness, light flooding down out of a weak, old curtain in his grandmama's apartment in North Nashville, the red light on the clock reading 10:03 PM, and felt dry mouth, cottony, and a tiredness pulling at his eyelids.
Voices, urgent, could be heard outside. But hushed. He held himself in bed, jeans against the smooth cotton sheets.
He'd lived here for five years now with his grandmama. He was sixteen now, barely eleven when he'd come. He tended to wake up in the night a lot, especially lately, but mostly it was to the sound of gunshots, or screaming. Not quiet conversations happening just outside his window.
Marcel put his feet on the floor, the roughspun, rug scratching against his bare feet. He shuffled to his room door and opened it.
The apartment's main living area was quiet. His grandmama was working at the hospital. She was a nurse, got stuck on night shift a lot.
He shuffled his way to the front door and looked through the peephole. A couple dudes were standing out there, dark skin shadowy in the faint light of the overhead bulb on the walkway. Marcel opened the door, and both of the guys looked up at him in surprise. One of them pulled a pistol, and Marcel froze.
“Damn, Marcel,” the one with the gun said. It was Andre Schuler, wearing a bright, neon green shirt. He slowly put his gun away, making it disappear into the waistband of his jeans. “You aiming to get yourself shot? Popping out like that – what were you thinking?”
“Take it easy on the boy,” Darius Dent said. “He ain't know you was gonna piss yourself because he opened a door.” Darius had a name on the streets – Heavy D. Calm pervaded his words and every inch of his six-foot-two frame. Tall but wiry, not thick like some, he was no gangly youth. Heavy D was just built; probably two hundred pounds, all muscle. He held out a beefy hand for Marcel to bump, and Marcel did, thumping against D's tattooed knuckles. “How you doin', Marcel? Where your grandmama at? Workin?'”
Marcel nodded. “Graveyard shift.” He blotted his eyes; surprisingly the gun being pointed at him had barely registered. Not the first time it'd happened anyway. “What are you talking about out here?”
“Was you sleeping?” Andre asked.
Marcel felt a burn in his cheeks. He didn't want to admit it, going to bed early, but what else could he say? “Just tired,” he decided. “What's going on?”
“Some shit, mostly,” Andre said. “You not hear about what happened at Cool Springs mall down in Franklin tonight?”
Marcel shook his head. “No. What happened?” He'd been to Cool Springs mall a time or three. Nice place. Pretty long ways, though, and out in the suburbs. He felt like people looked at him funny out there in White People land.
“A lot,” D said. “Place got wrecked.”
Marcel's eyebrow rose. “Who did it?”
“Who knows?” Andre said. He was looking over the railing into the apartment courtyard below with its overgrown trees and rampant weeds. Sometimes it surprised Marcel someone hadn't decided to grow actual weed down there, though that was probably too much even for this neighborhood. “And who cares? That was Brentwood, not a problem for us.” He patted where his gun sat. “They probably gonna blame us, though.”
Marcel didn't need to ask why. “You think the police will come out here? For that?”
“The police need an excuse to come to this neighborhood and start shit?” Andre said. He reached over and clapped Marcel on the shoulder. “Sorry for scaring you, little man.” That made Marcel blanch; he was shorter than any of his peers. “You get on back to sleep.” With a look of great significance, he nodded to Heavy D. “I know that's what I'ma do.” And with a last nod at them, he walked off down the walkway, hand touching the burnished iron railing with every step, like he was afraid he'd pitch over.
“You oughta go back inside and sleep,” Heavy D said, looking out over the rail to the courtyard. All was quiet.
“What about what Andre said?” Marcel asked. Something about the way he'd said it made Marcel's stomach rumble. Nerves, maybe.
“Don't you worry about him,” Heavy D said. “These are not your problems.” He, too, gave Marcel a cuffing on the shoulder, and smiled. “Yet. You be good, lil' cuz.”
They weren't related, but D called Marcel 'cuz' anyway. The big man shuffled his way in the opposite direction of Andre, broad shoulders pushed back, blue T-shirt like a beacon in the dark telling everyone who he was affiliated with. When he was almost out of earshot, Marcel heard him mutter, “Word's gonna get out soon enough, and then...”
But he didn't finish the thought, and Marcel was too sleepy to ask him. He just watched Heavy D go, and wondered what had happened down at the mall that was so bad it had them worrying about things blowing back all the way up here. But Marcel just shook his head and went back inside, careful to lock the door. If his grandmama came home and found it unlocked, she'd smack him upside the head.
CHAPTER THREE
Sienna
I should have answered my phone. It might have saved me a world of trouble.
But I didn't hear it; I'd left it on the counter in the kitchen of Guy Friday's ornate mansion, the place I'd called home for months in Tennessee before I'd decamped to New Asgard, Texas for six months of rehab and recovery. I barely recognized the place as I wandered room to room, furniture carefully staged for the impending sale.
In the bedroom I caught the scent of a cleaning agent and air freshener, presumably dispersed in order to remove the smell of my dogs and (then) kitten. I spared a thought for them – adorable Cali, loyal Jack, and shy Emma. They would be on their way to me shortly, taking a ride with my grandmother across the plains of Texas and the hills of Arkansas. I breathed deep and smelled that air freshener – piney, with a hint of chemical.
Brushing a hand across the perfectly made bed where I'd slept in peace more nights than not, a tinge of regret ran through me. How would things have been different if I hadn't left? If I hadn't lost my damned mind and flown off to Minneapolis, desperate to save the city from utter destruction?
“Ariadne would be dead,” I muttered. Along with millions more. I traced my fingers over the scars from my fight there, then moved them up to my still-short hair. Reminders of what I'd lost in my rage, in my desire to set things right and save that city.
But I'd done it. I'd killed those responsible, and all it cost me was my sobriety, my dignity, my hair, and damned near my life. Not just my life in general, but my home in Tennessee, almost my job with TBI – which was still TBD–
That's not fair, Brianna Glover said within my head. Friday was on a downward spiral anyway. He might have lost the house regardless.
“If I'd been here,” I said, my bare feet sinking into the high-pile carpet, its thick padding luxuriant beneath my bare soles, “maybe I could have stopped him from–”
Being stupid? Put me down in the skeptic column for that one.
