The Jealous Kind (Holland Family Saga 2)

“Bledsoe is the ringleader,” Krauser said. “He belongs in a juvenile facility. This one here is a snake. Don’t turn your back on him.”

The other cops were taking Saber out of the cruiser. He was handcuffed and barefoot, his T-shirt stretched out of shape on his neck, one knee grass-stained, his elbows raw and bleeding. Hopkins pushed me up the driveway.

“I want to call my parents,” I said.

He didn’t answer. I stepped on a bottle cap or a rock and had to hop on one foot. Then we rounded the corner of the house. The yard was in full sunlight, the humidity like spun glass, the air thick with the smell of feces. Flies buzzed around the trash can. The Doberman was stretched out on the grass, inches from an empty water bowl. A piece of butcher paper streaked with a copper-colored liquid had blown against the chain-link fence.

“You think we did this?” I said.

“You wear a ten and a half?” he said.

“Shoe?”

“No, your hat size.”

“Yes, a ten-and-a-half shoe.”

“Go up the steps.”

“The Harrelsons or the Atlases are behind this.”

“The who?”

“If you talked with Jenks, he told you about them.”

“What he told me is you boys may have caused a boy to lose his eye. Now, get your ass inside.”

“I want to call my parents.”

“You don’t make the rules, boy.”

“I’m not going to cooperate with this.”

“You’re going to do as you’re told.”

The back door was open. So was the screen, slashed diagonally by a sharp knife or a box cutter. The dead bolt had been prized out of the doorjamb. Hopkins pressed his knuckle into my spine. Sweat was running down my nose; the sun was the hot yellow of an egg yolk, the heat from the concrete and St. Augustine grass a wool blanket on my skin. I could feel my wrists peeling and salt running into the cuts, when I tried to twist them inside the cuffs. Hopkins worked his knuckle into my spine again.

“You son of a bitch,” I said.

“Didn’t quite catch that.”

My nose was dripping, my eyes burning, the yard and house slipping out of focus. “I apologize.”

“Get inside,” he said.

“What for? I was playing miniature golf with a friend last night. I went from my house to work this morning. I couldn’t have done

whatever it is that happened here.”

“Inside, boy. I won’t say it again.”

“I want a witness.”

“Witness to what.”

“Whatever you’re going to do.”

There was no one else in the yard. I could hear Saber and the other cops out on the driveway. Saber had either fallen or sat down and was making them drag him into the backyard. Hopkins lit a Camel and took a puff and let the smoke out slowly. He looked at his cigarette, then raised his eyes to me. “You smoke?”