Fortunate Son

By J.D. Rhoades

Years ago, the Jakes brothers were found alone, hungry, and freezing, in a trailer where they’d been left by their mother. One found a happy home. The older son never did, but he always dreamed of the day when they would be together again.

Thirteen years later, big brother appears, and he’s determined to reunite the family, even if he has to do it by kidnapping his younger brother. The mother they haven’t seen in years is in New Orleans, and she’s in trouble. Her sons are coming to the rescue, even if one of them is doing it at gunpoint.

But things are rapidly spinning out of control in New Orleans. The Jakes boys, the disgraced former sheriff trying to chase them down, and an ambitious Louisiana deputy investigating the mother are in for far more danger than any of them bargained for. As they’re caught between two sides in a vicious drug war, everyone’s fighting to survive, no one knows who to trust, and it’s anyone’s guess who’ll be left standing at the end.

A story of loss and redemption, of love and betrayal, and above all of how far some will go to be part of a family, FORTUNATE SON will keep you up all night and leave you unable to forget it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Polis Books
• Release date: Aug 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781947993112

J.D. Rhoades

Born and raised in North Carolina, J.D. Rhoades has worked as a radio news reporter, club DJ, television cameraman, ad salesman, waiter, attorney, and newspaper columnist. His weekly column in North Carolina’s The Pilot was twice named best column of the year in its division. He is the author of six novels in his acclaimed Jack Keller series: The Devil’s Right Hand, Good Day in Hell, Safe and Sound, Devils and Dust, Hellhound on My Trail, and Won’t Back Down, as well as Ice Chest, Breaking Cover, and Broken Shield. He lives, writes, and practices law in Carthage, NC.

Book preview

THE DAY THAT Tyler Welch learned his real name, he was up before the dawn and on the road as the sun came up. Two-a-day football practices were scheduled to start in three weeks, and he’d been dismayed when he looked down and saw what he was sure was a roll of fat—a small one, to be sure, but still a roll—forming around his belly. A summer job at Quizno’s wasn’t something that promoted maximum fitness, and he suddenly felt guilty for every Peppercorn Steak sub he’d sucked down on one of his too-brief meal breaks instead of a healthier turkey sandwich, or even a salad. Football practices in late summer North Carolina heat and humidity were going to be unforgiving enough without carrying extra pounds, and Tyler wanted that starting quarterback slot in his senior year of high school more than he wanted oxygen.

He could hear his parents moving about in their bedroom as he slipped out of the house. The morning was still cool, but muggy, foreshadowing the oppressive blanket of heat and moisture that would descend as the sun rose. Tyler performed a few brief stretches, impatient to get on his way, before ascending the brief slope of shady driveway that led to the main road. He paused a moment, looking back at the modest brick house he shared with his parents and younger sister. He took no notice of the faded and dented black Firebird that passed by, slowed, then sped up and accelerated away down the long stretch of country road that ran by the house.

He started at a fast walk, ramping up quickly to a slow jog. He couldn’t seem to find the rhythm, that coordination of stride and breath and effort that would eventually lift him up and carry him along as if of its own accord. Every step thudded on the hard-packed earth by the roadside, every breath rasped in his lungs. Gradually, though, he began to fall into the old familiar groove, and he smiled as he picked up the pace. He was so pleased to be back in the swing of things that he didn’t notice the black Firebird as it passed him again, going the other way. It was good to be just turned eighteen and alive and rocking along in fine—if not perfect—shape under a hazy pale-blue Carolina morning sky, with nothing but possibilities ahead.

He’d almost completed his second mile by the time he finally noticed the black Firebird, and only then when it passed by, moving slowly. Tyler caught a glimpse of the driver’s face, pale under a shock of thick black hair, before the vehicle was past him. It slowed, then pulled over to the side of the road, blocking his path. Tyler pulled up to a stop, his brow furrowed in annoyance. He’d just gotten going, and now this asshole was in his way.

The paint on the old Pontiac was peeling in spots and discolored in others. The golden outline of the mythical bird on the hood had faded to a pale yellow, the left rear quarter panel dented. The driver got out and stood in the open door for a moment, looking at Tyler. He looked to be in his early twenties, painfully thin, dressed in ragged blue jeans and a long-sleeved plaid shirt that was too heavy for summer. The eyes that looked out at him from under the thick fringe of his hair were a brilliant blue that looked disturbingly familiar to Tyler. He didn’t know who this guy was, but he gave Tyler the creeps. He’d been well-raised by a good Southern family, however, and his default mode was courtesy.

Hey, he said. Do you need help?

The driver didn’t speak for a moment. Finally, he smiled. The lopsided smile looked familiar, too. Get in the car, Keith, he said. He raised his right arm, and Tyler saw the gun for the first time.

That…that’s not my name, Tyler answered, his eyes fixed on the barrel of the weapon. Despite the rising sun’s heat, he felt cold in the pit of his stomach.

I know your name, Keith, the driver said. I know it better than you do. Get in.

Tyler thought of running. He knew he was fast, but no one was really faster than a speeding bullet. He had a brief thought of charging the gunman, taking the gun away, beating his assailant into the ground. But the cold black circle of that gun barrel was enough to crush any illusions Tyler might have had about being a hero. This wasn’t a movie. He knew he had to get into the car, but his legs didn’t seem to want to work.

Get in, little brother, the gunman said. I’m not gonna tell you again.

Tyler felt a sudden stirring of long-repressed memory triggered by the word brother. He knew where he’d seen those eyes, that smile before. Mick?

The gunman smiled. That’s me.

Holy…where have you been, man?

The smile slipped a little. Here and there.

Tyler was having trouble believing it. Mick had dropped out of his life years ago. Tyler had thought about him for years. Until he’d stopped. He felt a twinge of guilt. It…it’s good to see you. He gestured toward the gun. Except for that, I mean.

The man looked down at the gun, then back up. Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t know how you’d react. You bein’ an upstanding citizen and all now. The gun never wavered.

Tyler swallowed. Why don’t you put it down?

My doctor told me I got trust issues. Now get in the car.

Where…where are we going? Tyler said.

To find Mama. She needs us.

I have a… Tyler almost said mother, but the way the gunman’s eyes narrowed stopped him.

Okay, he said. Okay. I’ll come with you. Just be cool, okay?

The gunman gave him that lopsided grin again. Oh, we’re cool, Keith. We’re way cool. Now come on. There’s not much time.

JESUS, THE man with the headphones said. He’s really beating the shit out of her.

He glanced over at Chance, who’d put on her own headset. She gritted her teeth at the sound of another blow hitting flesh. We need to do something, she said.

The woman inside the house was no longer crying out, no longer pleading or cajoling. They couldn’t tell if she was unconscious or dead, or if she was just riding it out. The voice of the man administering the beating was raised, but they couldn’t make out the words, he was shouting so angrily.

We need to do something. Chance said again. She whipped off her headphones and started towards the door of the room where they’d set up their surveillance. It was the front parlor of an abandoned house across the street from their target, and Chance’s boots echoed on the hardwood floorboards in the empty space.

Hold it! the DEA agent with the headphones barked. We spent weeks getting authorization for this surveillance. I’m not blowing it for some minor domestic disturbance.

Minor? He’s going to kill her!

"If he does, then we’ve got him. But right now, Deputy Cahill, you need to remember you are here as a courtesy to local law enforcement. This is a DEA operation, not some country barn dance gone wrong. You fuck this up and I’ll charge you with interfering in a federal investigation. So you just stand the fuck down."

Chance stared for a moment, her hand on the front door. She let the hand fall away. You really are a prick, Winslow, she said.

Yeah, no shit, Winslow said. Welcome to the big time, Deputy Cahill. He cocked his head, looking for all the world like a dog who’d just been asked if he wanted to go out. It’s over, anyway.

Chance could hear the bang of the screen door from across the street. She stole a glance through the ragged curtain and milky glass of the front door. Their target was striding down the walkway of the tiny wood-frame house, his face still clenched with anger. He got into an aging black Mercedes convertible with the top down. In this neighborhood of New Orleans, known as Arabi, the car, even old as it was, stuck out like an evening gown in a dive bar. The fact that it hadn’t been stolen or stripped was evidence the owner was connected. Chance could see him grip the wheel, staring straight ahead. Slowly, he lowered his head to rest on the steering wheel. It was all Chance could do not to yank the door open, walk over to the Mercedes, pull the son of a bitch out of that fancy car, and cuff his sorry ass before hauling him off to jail. Someday soon, Charleyboy, she whispered, Someday real soon.

That’s the spirit, Winslow said. The man in the Mercedes straightened up, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb.

We should at least check and see that she’s not dead, Chance said. She didn’t trust herself to look at Winslow.

She’s not. Winslow reached under the console and pulled out a small black cellphone. But let me set your mind at ease. He punched speed dial.

SAVANNAH HEARD the soft vibration of the cheap burner phone she’d stashed beneath the cushions of the faded couch. Slowly, grimacing with the pain in her ribs and stomach, she got on her hands and knees and pulled it out. I’m okay, she said without preliminaries.

You sure? Winslow said.

She reached over and fished a Marlboro Light out of the crumpled pack on the coffee table. I didn’t use the safe word, did I? She lit the cigarette. She didn’t know if her hands were shaking from the fear or the hangover that made her head pound along with the throbbing in her ribs.

No. He almost sounded proud of her. You didn’t. Hang in there, Savannah. This’ll all be over soon.

She took a drag on the cigarette. The smoke, as always, calmed her nerves. And we get our immunity when this is over. Both of us.

You do. What happens to Charleyboy depends on how well he plays along.

He’ll play along, she said. When he finds out what I’ve done, he’ll have to.

You’re being really brave here, Savannah.

Jesus, he was really laying it on thick. She barked out a short, bitter laugh. Yeah. Right. She took another drag on the cigarette. You find out about the other thing? About my boys?

We’re working on it. I promise.

She sat up. You’d better come through on this, Winslow. Or you get nothin’. You hear me?

There was a brief pause. Winslow’s voice when he spoke had lost even the false warmth he’d shown earlier. You don’t want to be making threats, Savannah. You’re not in a real strong position here.

Don’t I know it, she thought. That’s why I’m doing my own search. My own way. Just remember what I said. It sounded weak and pitiful even to her. She broke the connection. She shoved the burner back beneath the couch, then sat there on the floor, her knees pulled up to her chest. She finished the cigarette, staring at the peeling wallpaper.

HOME SWEET home, Mick said as they pulled up in front of the house.

How’d you know where I live? Tyler said.

I know a lot about you, lil’ bro, Mick said. Big football star, huh?

I do all right. He felt absurdly defensive about it. From the sound of it, Mick—if it was Mick, which he still had trouble believing—had had a harder life than him. He felt that twinge of guilt again.

Oh, don’t be so modest, Keith. You’re supposed to be All-State this year. He got out. Come on. You’re going to need to get some things.

What do you mean? Tyler got out on his own side.

We’re going to need some cash, he said. And I reckon you’re going to want to at least pack a toothbrush and a change of underwear.

Wait a minute, Tyler said. I’ve got a little money, but— And I’m betting these nice folks with this nice house have a lot more.

Tyler stopped. I’m not stealing from them!

Okay, Mick said. Then I will.

Tyler set his jaw. Like hell. He started for Mick.

Almost lazily, Mick raised the gun and pointed it at Tyler’s face. Now, now, he said. Is that any way for a preacher’s boy to talk?

They’re my parents, Mick.

No, Mick said, they’re not. He lowered the gun slightly.

They raised me. They took care of me. A lot better than… He stopped. He’d tried to forget about his biological mother, and his parents had provided scant information about her. All she knew was that she’d walked away from him. But he couldn’t say that now. The gun was aimed straight at his face again, Mick’s finger tight on the trigger. His eyes were full of fury. That was a look Tyler remembered. He was beginning to believe.

You want to watch what you say, little brother, Mick said, his voice tight. Mama’s in trouble. She needs us. And we’re going to help her.

What are you talking about?

I’ll explain later, Mick said. Now get a move on.

Tyler’s hand trembled as he opened the door. He imagined he could feel exactly where the gun was pointed at his back, could almost feel where the bullet would go in. He went inside, Mick close behind him.

Nice place, Mick said as they entered the living room.

Thanks, Tyler replied, then immediately felt foolish, not knowing if Mick was being sarcastic.

Must be good money in this preachin’ game. Mick walked over to the mantel above the fireplace. He scanned the photos there: Tyler in his football uniform. A much younger Tyler under a Christmas tree covered with uneven lumps of tinsel. A picture of Tyler between his mother and father, proudly holding up a newly caught fish. Mick took that one off the mantel and looked down at it.

Don’t, Tyler blurted out.

Mick looked up. Don’t what? he said. Don’t even look? Your mommy and daddy, he almost spat the words, too good for me to even look at? Tyler didn’t answer, just looked at him helplessly. Or you think I’m going to break it? That what you think of me? He put the picture back on the mantelpiece with exaggerated care. They must have made me out to be some kind of evil motherfucker, lil’ bro.

Actually, Tyler thought, nobody’s even mentioned you for years. He kept silent.

Come on, Mick said impatiently. Get your shit. And the money. He followed Tyler into his room. His eyes were expressionless as he surveyed the football posters on the wall, the shelves of trophies, the cases of ribbons, but Tyler felt he was being judged nonetheless.

Well, don’t just stand there, Mick said.

Look, Tyler said, There’s money in my dresser. I saved it up. It’s almost five hundred bucks. Just take it and go.

Now where’d you get that kind of cash?

Working. Working at Quizno’s.

And how long it take you to save up almost five hundred?

I don’t know. A few months.

Mick smiled. And in just a few minutes, it’s going to be all mine, he said. All that work seems kinda pointless now, don’t it? He walked over and patted Tyler on the shoulder. I can tell I got a lot to teach you about how the world works. It was the closest that Mick had approached so far. Tyler seized the opportunity. He swung at Mick’s chin as hard as he could. The blow connected solidly, knocking Mick’s head to one side. Just as quickly, however, Mick whirled back, his right hand whipping the gun across Tyler’s face. Before he knew what was happening, Tyler was on his knees, his head reverberating from an explosion of pain. He tasted the coppery tang of blood in his mouth and felt a slow, warm trickle of blood down his cheek. He felt the barrel of the gun against his temple.

You’re family, Keith, Mick said softly. My own flesh and blood. Which is why your brains aren’t all over that wall right now. But don’t. Push. Me.

That’s…not my name, Tyler whispered. He felt tears mingling with the blood on his face.

There was a long pause. At that moment, Tyler knew he’d gone too far. He knew he was going to die. He began to pray softly. Our father, who art in heaven…

Mick interrupted him. It’s a good thing I’m here, he said. Else you might have forgotten who you are.

The gun barrel was suddenly gone. Tyler didn’t look up. Hallowed be thy name… he whispered.

Then Mick was back, kneeling beside him. Tyler turned to look, his eyes bleak and hopeless. Mick held a towel in his left hand. He pressed it against Tyler’s cheek almost tenderly. Here, he said, let me look. Tyler was numb with shock at the sudden display of concern. He winced slightly as Mick wiped away the blood. You got any Band-Aids?

In the bathroom. Cabinet above the sink. Tyler slowly got to his feet as he heard Mick rummaging in the medicine cabinet. He thought of trying to run. Later he would wonder if it was fear or guilt that stopped him.

Mick came out of the bathroom with the box in one hand. He put the gun down on the dresser by the bathroom door. You can’t hit no harder’n that, he grinned, guess I got nothin’ to worry about. He shook some bandages out of the box and began taking them out of their wrappers. Don’t look so shocked, Keith, he said as he began applying them to the wound on his cheekbone. Who do you think used to patch you up when you were little?

I don’t know. I don’t remember.

That was me, little brother, Mick said. I took care of you. And now I need your help. He put the last of the bandages in place and took Tyler’s shoulder. He looked into his brother’s face earnestly. Mama needs your help, too.

Why? Tyler said. Tell me why either of us should do anything for her.

Mick straightened up. What do you mean?

Tyler got to his feet. She left us, Mick. She walked out. And she never looked back.

Mick grabbed Tyler by the shoulders. No! he yelled. "That’s bullshit! That’s the lie they told you to cover up what they did to us. The sudden return of Mick’s fury stunned Tyler back into silence. That ferocity was something Tyler remembered all too well. Mick turned him toward the door and picked the gun up off the dresser. Get your stuff, he said, his face now expressionless. And don’t forget the money."

SO, CHANCE said. "She’s our asset."

"Our asset? She wanted to smack that condescending smirk off the man’s fat face, but she didn’t take the bait. Finally, Winslow nodded. She thinks she can turn Charleyboy. And when Charleyboy turns, he can help us bring Luther down."

In exchange for his safety.

Among other things. Or so she thinks.

She narrowed her eyes. She mentioned her boys. What’s that all about?

Winslow turned back to the recording console set up on a collapsible table in the empty room. He began logging the last recording on a laptop computer perched on the table. A few years ago, she lost her kids. Two boys. They got adopted out. She wants to know where they are. How they’re doing.

Chance shook her head. You didn’t promise her that, did you? Those records would be sealed.

He shrugged, not looking at her. I said we’d try.

She looked out the front window. Asshole, she thought to herself.

AFTER SHE’D smoked the cigarette nearly down to the filter, Savannah unfolded herself from her position on the floor and got to her feet. She looked in the dulled mirror over the fireplace and ran a finger lightly over the cut on her cheek. The bruise around it was rapidly swelling into something she couldn’t easily cover with makeup. She winced and took her finger away. She sighed, then winced again as the intake of breath sent stabs of pain through her ribs. Normally, she could see the blow coming and cover up. This time, however, it had come from out of nowhere. She couldn’t even remember what she had said to set him off.

She knew Charleyboy was under a lot of pressure. She had walked on eggshells for the past month as he brooded and drank at the kitchen table, smoking cigarette after cigarette, the last one of every evening slowly burning down between his fingers as he nodded off. The immobility, the passivity, was the surest sign that something was drastically wrong. From the moment she’d met Charleyboy, she’d been drawn to his vitality, his energy. He’d seemed to be perpetually in motion, and she had been caught up and drawn along in the wake of it, laughing along with him in delight at the great ride they were sharing. There was money and whiskey and smoke and pills and powder to go around. It was good times for everyone. And if sometimes the good times went a little too far—well, there wasn’t really any such thing as too far, was there? She was a party girl, always had been, since she’d found out at fourteen that a pretty face and blossoming figure could get her into the places where the fun was, places a hell of a lot more interesting than the single-wide trailer she’d shared with an alcoholic mother and an aunt who’d checked out of reality years ago.

As she checked her face and body in the mirror, Savannah had to notice, not for the first time, the deeper, more permanent damage that time was doing. Her body was still reasonably firm, even if the curve of hips and ass had grown a little more pronounced. Charleyboy had always said he liked her curves better than the rail-thin model look, anyway. But the face was beginning to show the years and the mileage, the laugh lines deepening inevitably towards crow’s feet. It took a little longer these days to put a face on. Even when she did, Charleyboy was too preoccupied most of the time to notice. He had always been quick with a compliment or an endearment. It was one of the things she loved about him. But now, he seemed so wrapped up in whatever was bothering him, it was as if she wasn’t even there. Until she said something to make him mad. Then she was there, but as a focus for his anger.

But it would be okay, she told herself. He’d be back. He always came back. And he’d be tender and sweet to her, tell her he loved her and always would. There’d be gifts. Their relationship in the times after he hit her was always like falling in love all over again. And the sex…well, there was nothing quite as hot as make-up sex. She smiled to herself. It was going to be all right. But then she looked back into the mirror, hugged herself, and shivered. Someone’s walking over your grave, her mother’s slurred voice said in her mind.

She had always known, in the back of her mind, that the good times couldn’t last forever. She always knew the party would end. Someday. Now, the day was rushing toward her like a black hurricane, and she only hoped she’d found a way to ride it out.

HE WAS STILL in the grip of the sick, shaky feeling he always had after he’d lost it like that. Charleyboy hated losing control. But he seemed to be doing it more and more these days. He knew the trouble he was in was what was making him so stressed. Actually, being in trouble with Mr. Luther created something somewhere beyond stress and in the neighborhood of mortal terror. But that wasn’t Savannah’s fault. He’d always been able to charm his way out of whatever scrapes they’d been in before. This one, however, was something he might not be able to get them out of, and Savannah’s constant presence served as an infuriating reminder of how badly he’d failed both of them. It wasn’t logical to take that out on her, he knew. But he couldn’t seem to control it. And since hitting her was just another form of failure for her to remind him of, he hit her again.

He took a deep breath. He needed to focus. Mr. Luther could sense when someone was feeling weak or unsure. And he would exploit it without mercy, working that raspy, insinuating voice into the tiniest cracks in his victim’s confidence, widening them until he levered them open like