Trouble & Strife Read online

  No one was inside the trailer but Kyle could hear Deke and Jimmy, his business partner, arguing out back. The trailer wasn’t actually a trailer—that’s what Kyle called it because it was so small. He’d lived there since he was five. It’s hard to remember much at that age, memories just out of reach, like the details of a dream you’ve already forgotten upon awaking. He knew he missed his mom a lot, and that he cried when his dad dropped him off following the funeral service because he’d wanted live with his father in Hollywood. But his dad was too busy making movies.

  Through the kitchen window, he spied them by the toolshed. Kyle couldn’t make out what they were saying, but Deke and Jimmy were going at it pretty hard, in each other’s face, jabbing fingers, standing toe to toe. Deke was sucking on that Marlboro Red like a fiend. Kyle liked Jimmy, who rented a booth at Blood and Bones, the tattoo parlor on the Highway. He was certainly cooler than Deke.

  Kyle already regretted cutting class, knew it was going to bite him on the ass. In truth, Kyle was bored shitless, and most of the time he wished he were back at school. But too much time had passed to walk back into class now. He had to wait for this to play out. Thanks to that letter, he wouldn’t have to wait long.

  Kyle brushed aside the rest of the mail, utility, gas—but not cable because Deke was too cheap to spring for that—shopping flyers, the empty takeout containers. He searched for a cigarette in an ashtray but couldn’t find one. Foggy, gray light crept through the threadbare curtains, these cheesy things with dangling, frilly dice that Kristy, Deke’s ex, had picked up at a consignment shop when they’d all gone for breakfast in Cutting. That was a nice morning. He missed having Kristy around. At least she tried to talk to Kyle once in a while.

  Kyle chugged the half can of warm Mountain Dew, and stared into the dense, green thicket of Mendocino Forest. Dark clouds churned in the distance, upturning leaves on the trees, thunderstorm brewing.

  Let’s do this. With Jimmy there, Deke was less likely to lose his shit.

  Kyle shoved open the screen door, and both Deke and Jimmy jumped out of their boots. Everyone in Dormundt knew those two didn’t take shit from anyone. Kyle felt good that he’d scared them.

  Deke whipped the letter from his back pocket, waving it around, eyes squinty mean. He pointed a finger at Kyle. “Stay right there.”

  “I ain’t going anywhere.” Kyle nodded at Jimmy. “What’s up?”

  “How’s it hanging, little man?”

  “Go back inside,” Deke said.

  “You told me not to go anywhere.”

  “Don’t be a smartass.”

  Kyle smoldered in place, trying to look tough.

  “Go!”

  Kyle yanked open the screen door, flinging it wide and letting it slam. He stalked near the window, trying to keep his edge. Now that they knew he was home, they were talking quieter. Like Kyle cared about whatever lame secret Deke had.

  Soon as Deke came inside, Kyle was telling him. He had made up his mind. He was moving to L.A. to live with his dad. He’d threatened it before but this time he would follow through. He imagined Deke getting all teary-eyed when he saw Kyle wasn’t playing around, and then his cousin would calm right down, try to backpedal, say Kyle couldn’t leave, how much he needed him, but Kyle would tell him too bad, he was out of there, no matter how much his cousin begged him not to go. Kyle would grab his stuff, all stone-cold and silent, and head out, leaving behind a weepy Deke to wonder why he had to be such a dick.

  And that’s where the fantasy dried up.

  Because Kyle couldn’t get on his bicycle and pedal five hundred miles to L.A., or even the twenty to the Greyhound station in Richter. Plus, he had no idea where his dad lived, and studios have security guards. He didn’t even have the same last name as his dad. No one would believe him. No one believes anything when you’re fifteen.

  Kyle sat down at the kitchen table in the dimming light, peeling labels off empty beer bottles, wadding spitballs and flicking them with his thumb. He must’ve dozed off because he woke up still sitting at the table but now it was dark.

  He heard Jimmy’s truck fire up, and Kyle steeled his resolve for the fight with his cousin. But when Deke walked in all he did was pace back and forth, pulling aside the dice curtains, gazing out the window and watching taillights disappear. He fired up another smoke even though he still had one in his mouth.

  It was getting late, darker, but no one bothered to turn on any lights. Something had Deke rattled, and it was more than Kyle’s cutting class. Deke hadn’t said one word to him, pacing, chain-smoking, staring down the black country road long after Jimmy’s truck was gone.

  “What’s wrong?” Kyle asked.

  Deke snapped to and pulled the letter from his back pocket, holding it up, before slapping it down on the counter. “Like I don’t have enough shit to worry about, you have to pull this stunt?”

  “It’s not a stunt.”

  “You’re going back. You hear me? Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

  “Don’t be a smartass.”

  Kyle wanted to say like hell he was, dig in his heels and make a stand, but something wasn’t right. Deke had resumed pacing, acting a nervous wreck. Kyle didn’t like this, Deke losing his cool. Kyle hated Deke most of the time, hated him for always giving him a hard time, for being a loser, for not being somebody important like his dad, but Kyle also respected how tough he was. He’d once seen Deke almost break a man’s arm in two for trying to rip him off. A couple winters back, this skeezy junkie, Chip Morsman, came by the trailer with two jacked-up buddies. Chip had bought a pair of tires off Deke, then tried to weasel out of paying because he said the tread on one of them was worn, which was a lie since Chip had picked out the tires himself. Chip must’ve figured with his two buddies there, both tatted and built like farm oxen, Deke wouldn’t start any trouble. But he didn’t know his cousin. Deke picked up an ax handle—just the wood part and not the actual blade—and he cracked Chip so hard in the eye you could hear the bone splinter across the yard. Then he wrapped the handle behind Chip’s arm, twisting it and lifting him off the ground until Chip cried like a baby and made his buddies grab his wallet and pay Deke. His cousin was a lot of things, but he wasn’t chickenshit. Right now, though, Deke looked terrified, and that terrified Kyle.

  Then his cousin did something unexpected. He came over and wrapped his arms around Kyle, hugged him tight. Deke never did that. Kyle didn’t know how to respond, so he sat there, body tensed, trying not to cry. Kyle had spent the last three weeks gearing up for a big showdown, but this wasn’t playing out like he’d imagined.

  “Come on,” Deke said, walking out back.

  Night had fallen hard, the sky over Spy Rock stained mud gray, and a harsh cold wind blew in from the Pacific and over the Ranges, rustling the forest. Deke pulled out a joint and sparked it. He took a hit and passed it to Kyle, who looked up, unsure what to do.

  “Yeah, I know you smoke. What’d’ya think? I’m stupid?”

  Kyle took the peace offering.

  “And I know you take money out of my dresser, and I know you pinch my stash and go down the strip mall and sell to those hoodrat turds.” Deke shook his head. “I never asked to be your dad. I didn’t have a choice.”

  Kyle didn’t know what to say.

  “Your father couldn’t take care of you after your mom died. He’s not that kind of a guy. It’s not only ’cause he’s an asshole. He don’t have a caring bone in his whole rotten body.”

  Deke didn’t talk much about his father anymore. Any time Kyle brought him up, it ended in a blowout. Kyle didn’t want to say anything, hoping maybe his cousin would keep talking. But he stopped.

  Deke took a couple steps into the tall backyard weeds, before turning around. “I need you to stay at Ronnie’s for a few days. I ain’t mad at you. But you have to go there. Okay? For a little while.”

  “I can’t. Ronnie’s mother hates me.”

&nbs
p; “Shit, man, ain’t there anywhere you can go?”

  “Maybe I can stay with my dad.” Kyle was trying to be helpful but that was the wrong thing to say.

  “Don’t you think if I knew how to find the sonofabitch I’d have called him by now?”

  “You’re just saying that because you’re jealous.”

  “Why would I be jealous of that asshole?”

  “Because he’s down in Hollywood, making movies, and you’re a loser working in a bar, dealing dope.” Kyle didn’t feel bad for Deke anymore.

  “Oh, yeah? If he’s such a great guy, how come he ain’t never called you? Doesn’t write you no more?”

  “You probably told him not to.”

  “No, Kyle. Your father ain’t called, and he don’t write, because he’s a selfish prick. He didn’t want you to live with him. That’s why he dumped you here.”

  Kyle leapt at his cousin, a half punch, part shove. Deke ducked out of the way and Kyle stumbled to his knees.

  “I hate you,” Kyle spat from the ground.

  “Pack some clothes.”

  “Screw you.”

  “I’m not kidding. We need to get out of here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  Deke grabbed Kyle by the arm, dragging him to the toolshed, Kyle resisting the whole way, until his cousin flipped him over and Kyle tumbled into the weeds. Deke pulled the wad of keys off his belt and opened the lock. He tugged the string and a dangling bulb blazed bright.

  On the floor of the old toolshed lay two large canvas bags. Deke knelt down and unzipped them. Marijuana. Lots of it. Sealed in plastic wrap, stacked high and deep, front to back.

  Deke never carried more than a sandwich baggie or two.

  “How much is here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Kyle tugged one of the handles. The bag didn’t budge. “Are you nuts? You can’t leave this out here. This shed’s falling apart. Anyone could come bust that lock with a rock. We’ve got to bring it in the house.”

  “We can’t bring it in the house.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s the first place they’re gonna look.”

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think? The people we stole it from.”

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  Here is a preview from Encrypting Maya by Lawrence Kelter.

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  BOOK I

  CHAPTER ONE

  1989: Durham, North Carolina

  Dr. Vernon Tyrell studied his patient’s ultrasound reports for the third time and still found nothing to change his mind regarding the prognosis. Her fallopian tubes had been impaired from two prior surgeries, which had been necessary to repair damages caused by ectopic pregnancies and no longer provided a suitable environment for fertilization. Still, he felt confident that her uterus was healthy and that she was capable of carrying full term. He’d already examined her in his office and didn’t expect to find any surprises but had performed one last hysteroscopy just to be one hundred percent sure of his findings before giving the couple the good news.

  He recalled meeting the young couple for the first time. They were nervous yet optimistic like most couples the fertility specialist met with and yet they were different, so very different. He’d never seen such courage in the eyes of any two prospective parents he had ever encountered. She was breathless with anticipation on the day he examined her, so eager to hear hopeful news that if he listened hard enough he imagined he could hear her neurons crackling with eagerness behind a smile that seemed to shine brighter with each passing moment.

  Her husband was a more serious type. His face solemn he hung on the doctor’s every word—those he understood and, in particular, the ones that gave him pause. He jotted down notes about the things he couldn’t comprehend and asked several questions. It was clear that he took the business of having a child seriously—they’d tried for years and she hadn’t so much missed a single period. The level of his commitment shined through. It could be seen in his eyes and smile and the deep-set horizontal creases that formed in his forehead when he strained to follow the conversation.

  The couple had scraped together every cent they could put together but were still short of the amount needed for the expensive medical procedure. They planned to borrow against their credit cards to make up the difference—whatever it took.

  Dr. Tyrell was donating his services free of charge. Still, with blood work, genetic testing, ultrasounds, and fertility medications, the total cost amounted to more money than the couple would be able to save in the next several years.

  Dr. Tyrell’s hair had lost its color early on, but his skin was ruddy from his routine of jogging every morning before work. The contrast of his healthy reddish skin against his white hair was striking. He traced lines on the reports with his finger until he’d gotten to the last page, the very last line. “Good,” he said and closed the folder before checking the time. “Getting late.” A small chessboard was set up on his desk. He peered over at the board again rethinking the move he was going to make. An identical setup rested on a chessboard in his son Benjamin’s office, a pediatrician in nearby Greensboro. “I’m dead either way,” he grumbled. “Why postpone the inevitable.” He made his move then took hold of his son’s chess piece and checkmated his own king. “Taught the boy too darn well.” He was reaching for the phone to call Benjamin and concede when he heard a knock on the door and saw his assistant, Agatha Poe, poke her head into his office.

  “Your patient and her husband finally arrived, Dr. Tyrell. They were held up in traffic more than two hours.”

  It was late in the day but he fully intended to stay put as long as necessary to complete the procedure on his patient. He used his pen to tap on a desk radio, which was tuned to the local news, spewing out reports at low volume. “Overturned tractor trailer on Route 1 just north of Moncure,” he said in a strong southern accent. “It’s a miracle they got here as soon as they did. Guess no one’s going home early tonight, Agatha. Are they ready for me over at the fertility center?”

  “Yes, Doctor. Your patient is being prepped right now. I’d give it fifteen before you head on over. You’re jogging same as always, right?”

  He nodded. Some of his colleagues routinely drove over to the Duke Fertility Center even though it was only a short half-mile away. “You know better than to ask a fool question like that, my dear. I don’t pull the car keys out of my pocket for anything less than a couple of miles. Still think I ought to wait a full fifteen?”

  She nodded an emphatic and how. “They’re slow as molasses over at the fertility center, Doctor.”

  He smiled. “They prefer to think of their lack of speediness as being careful.”

  “As you say, Dr. Tyrell, but if you ask me the head nurse over there is slower than a sloth.”

  “A sloth you say? Two-toed or three?” he asked with a grin.

  “Why, she’s got two speeds only, slow and—”

  “Reverse? No time for jibber-jabber, Agatha.” Tyrell smiled and shooed her out the door as he began to tidy up his desk for the day. He thought about the miracle he was about to perform prompting his cheekbones to rise. “Time to make a baby,” he mused as he stood and put on his suit jacket.

  Dr. Tyrell hit the busy intersection of Fayetteville Road and Woodcroft Parkway across from the medical center. It was just about quitting time for most of the medical professionals that worked in the area. He had noted from past late afternoon jaunts that the nine-to-fivers liked to get going in a hurry. He waited on the northeast corner, jogging in place with his eyes glued to the traffic signals, hoping for an opportunity to cut diagonally across the intersection.

  He sprang off the curb as soon as the coast looked clear and dashed across the intersection. He was feeling
invigorated from the quick dash and turned his focus to the fertility center that was no more than two hundred feet in front of him. He had yet to reach the cut parking lot curb when a black sedan approached at breakneck speed. Although he didn’t see it he heard the roar of the engine and sensed its presence. His arteries charged with adrenaline even before he saw that the car was coming straight for him. Its engine was racing as it approached, accelerating rapidly like a ravenous beast that had finally cornered life-sustaining prey. Finding spring in his legs he thought had long ago ebbed he leaped avoiding the front bumper by mere inches just as the sedan bounced over a section of uncut curb splashing a torrent of mud on a freshly waxed BMW sports car. It hit the road with its tire screeching as it swerved and sped off.

  “Son of a bitch!” Tyrell swore, still panting as he spun on his heels, seething with anger, ready to lash out at the lunatic driver, who would’ve killed him had he not been so quick on his feet. He felt his heart pounding and made a concerted effort to relax, slowly drawing deep breaths in and out. After a moment he abandoned his anger and turned his focus to the job at hand, forcing the wheels in his head to stop and reverse direction channeling his thoughts away from the near disaster. He had a fertilized egg to implant—giving the smallest identifiable form of human life a home to nestle within for the next forty weeks.

  And nothing was going to stop him.