Page 6 of Savage Possession
Four cement walls, a long slab jutting out into the bayou, and a set of crude stairs that takes whoever is stupid enough to go up them into the elevated floor above the water are all the place offers.
Along the craggy walls clings remnants of graffiti. A rusted and mangled barbed wire fence is the only thing keeping the gators at bay on the far side of the building and even then, I wouldn't trust it.
I paste on a bland expression when a thought comes to me. I am pretty sure, knowing the shady people my father works with, the water just beyond the razor fencing serves as a watery grave. A chain-link gate on this side of the building stands unhinged and wide open. Whoever my father is meeting is already here. I try not to shiver, but the cold air and my own anxiety combine to leave goosebumps along my arms. Everything here smells faintly of rain, rot and metal and a trace of something sharp and chemical I can’t quite name.
“Stay here,” my father commands gruffly, his tone a warning. He’s in his mid-fifties, hair gone almost completely silver at the temples, but his body is still whipcord lean and I’ve never known him to make a single move without calculating it to death. The same goes with every word he speaks. He thinks it is law. And maybe it is to those who work under him.
Age etches deep lines along his cheeks, forehead and at the corners of his eyes. Shadows of pain cling to the grooves and looking at him, I don't think he’ll ever shake off the pain of losing my mother. I remember when his laughter used to echo through our house, back when my mother was alive and he still believed in hope. Or at least that is how I see him.
Now he wears sorrow like a cloak, tailored perfectly to fit the hard lines of his jaw and the wary glance in his eyes. It’s like he hopes death finds him sooner rather than later and he’s doing everything he can to make that wish come true.
Again. At least that is how I see him.
He steps out into the glow of a single lightbulb hanging from wires from a makeshift pole. The sound of the limo door closing behind him reverberates deep in my bones. I watch through the tinted glass as he walks across a muddy path, briefcase in hand.He climbs a narrow set of stairs and disappears into the shadows a few seconds later.
The second he is out of sight, I grab the folder on the seat and start thumbing through it. He’s up to something and there has to be proof somewhere. I throw a quick glance to the driver, but he’s learned not to pay attention to anything except the road. My father made sure of that long before I came along.
The stack of papers is about half an inch thick and holds nothing out of the ordinary. Train cargo and shipping containers are all itemized, value outlined and the company who is shipping in yet another column. A few have the initials SA scribbled in by hand. A few more have V beside them. I memorize as much as I can—the numbers, the names, the patterns in the margins that speak to deals being struck in back rooms.
From my vantage, I see the layout of the place. There are rows of stacked containers, my father’s men milling about in dark jackets, and the grimy floodlights flickering over it all.
Movement on the stairs catches my eye. A group of men step into the light. My father leads the way with a tense expression pulling his lips into a tight line. They come close to the limo where I can hear a few words being spoken.
Beside him, I spot a man I don’t recognize. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with a permanent scowl etched into his pale face. His eyes are the coldest blue I’ve ever seen, glinting with a fierce, predatory intelligence. The chill that rolls off him is nearly physical, and when he turns to speak to one of the guards with a crisp Russian accent. He carries power like a weapon, and I make a silent vow to avoid him at all costs.
But it’s the other man that makes my blood run colder. Grudge, president of the Vultures MC, leans against the railing, his arms folded over his leather cut, boots planted wide. He’s everything my father pretends not to be—brutal, cunning, wild as a hurricane. The greasy hair, the dark, patchy stubble, the twitch of his jaw as he grinds his teeth around a wad of tobacco. All of it speaks to a life lived at the sharp edge of survival. He’s watching my father, but every so often his eyes flick toward the car, lingering like he knows I’m inside, even though he can’t see through the tinted glass.
I press my back into the leather of my seat and force myself to remember I’m safe as long as the doors remain locked.
I look on as the Russian takes the briefcase my father hands him. In exchange, he is handed a thicker one.
It’s money.
I’m not stupid. I know how these people work.
The question is, what has my father sold to get a briefcase full of money?
The Russian says something low, and my father stiffens. Grudge grins, showing off yellowed teeth, the kind of smile that promises nothing good.
“You already know what I want for my part of the deal, Fontaine.”
That’s Grudge.
They all shake hands, and the door opens, and my father slides back into the limo. His hands are tight on the briefcase, his breathing a little too quick, but he keeps his features schooled into blankness. He doesn’t speak during the ride home, juststares out the window, lips pressed in a thin white line, his thumb tapping out a nervous rhythm on the armrest.
Home is a plantation house built in the image of old southern royalty, perched on land that’s been in our family for generations. Oak trees line the drive, their thick branches draped in ghostly strands of Spanish moss, leaves whispering in the humid dusk. The house is beautiful in a way that feels melancholy.
As we pull up, the wide porch glows with the soft yellow of antique lanterns. The marble stairs are flanked by rose bushes my mother once tended, now wild and overgrown.
Grudge pulls his motorcycle up beside us and kills the engine.
I watch as he ambles up the steps, slouching against a pillar, exhaling a plume of smoke that curls in the twilight.
I turn to my father, my voice gentle. “Are you all right, Father? Are we… all right? What kind of business dealings are these, exactly? Why is that man waiting like he owns the place?”
My father doesn’t answer as he steps from the car and pulls me along with him.
“Everything is fine. Go to your room and prepare for tonight’s dinner party.” The words are as cold as death.
