The Exiled Read Online Free PDF

to see her frowning down. Was the rape, or attempted rape, which had likely started as a play for something consensual, a kind of vengeance, something Jack could present Mavis with when she came to her senses: Look what you drove me to? If Mavis had meant to teach him a lesson, then the attempt failed all the way around. Jack’s last moments were too brutal, too ugly for any epiphany. He’d died as the worst possible version of himself.
    The waitress brought Raney’s coffee.
    “I made it extra strong,” she said. “If this don’t keep you awake, nothing will.”
    “I appreciate it.”
    He poured a cup, drank it straight, trying to burn away the craving sparked by that one small taste. He poured a second cup, loaded it with sugar.
    He turned his thoughts to the dead boy: a postpubescent mule-cum-murderer, not born for his job but raised in it. Jack, old enough to be his grandfather, was a dabbler by comparison. Did Wilkins mark the boy’s first kill? Maybe, but he had seen men killed, known their killers. He was better prepared for death than Jack. Overdose or suicide? The balance tilted in favor of suicide: he’d avenged his sister but failed to protect her. If someone opened that door, it would either be to arrest him or execute him. If no one came, death by needle beat starvation.
    Finally, the girl. It was the bruise on her cheek that stayed with Raney, a mark of innocence, made by the kind of backhand any girl is susceptible to in a thousand different situations, the crime fathers fight hardest to protect their daughters against. A connection he couldn’t help but make: Ella, his own daughter, was the same age as Jack’s victim. Raney felt an ache he’d become deft at suppressing. He wanted to call Sophia, demand to know that the daughter he’d never met was happy and safe. Was she dating anyone? Had she applied for college? But phoning would make for his worst betrayal yet. To Sophia, he was a member of the walking dead, and he would not allow himself to haunt her at this late date.
    The waitress set half a roast chicken and a side of greens on the table.
    “Anything else, darling?” she asked.
    Raney shook his head.
    “No thank you,” he said. “I’ve got enough here for a small army.”
    He watched her walk away, thought: And what are your secrets, darling? What have you done besides survive?

7
    T he casino was polished, upscale, every surface bright, gleaming. A maze of slot machines on one side; a floor-to-ceiling bank of TV sets behind the roulette tables; a bar in the back with metallic-blue chandeliers and stools that looked like Bakelite eggcups. A cordoned-off seating area faced a glass wall overlooking the valley. At 10:00 p.m. on a weeknight, the place was just under half full.
    Raney stalked the blackjack tables, studying the patrons. There was no shortage of fat men in gaudy shirts, but only one wore a jet-black toupee with the edges peeling back. He sat alone, losing consecutive rounds to the dealer, a young Navajo woman in a severely starched shirt and bow tie. She handled the cards mechanically, her mind somewhere in a future that didn’t include Bob Sims.
    Raney had no authority here. The slightest gaffe and they could escort him out on the grounds that he was bothering the clientele. He drifted back among the slot machines, took a notepad and pen from inside his blazer, wrote:
    Meet me at the bar. Urgent.
    He tore the paper from the pad, folded it in thirds, then returned to the tables. He waited for the croupier to collect Sims’s latest stack of chips before tapping him on the shoulder.
    “Bob?”
    Raney smiled, put on his most pleasant voice; Sims let his irritation show.
    “Do I know you?”
    “You know Mavis Wilkins. She asked me to give this to you.”
    He handed over the message, winked at the croupier. She didn’t seem to notice.
      
    “Am I getting served?” Sims asked. “Don’t tell me Mavis is pregnant.”
    They were seated at the table farthest from the bar.