Chapters (110)
- Cover
- ALSO BY J. TODD SCOTT
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- PROLOGUE
- I
- II
- PART ONE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- PART TWO
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- PART THREE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- PART FOUR
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- EIGHTY-FOUR
- EPILOGUE
- I
- II
- III
- IV
- V
- VI
- VII
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Excerpt from LOST RIVER
- LITTLE PARIS
- DILLON
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
Jamie smiles. Knows just the sort of errand that Little Paris likes to handle on his own, the only kind that really gets him out of Lower Wolf anymore. He reaches into his white Escalade, then tosses a bag to Little Paris, who catches it out of the air.
Little Paris roots around in it and pulls out a glassine bindle stamped with a skeleton dancing a jig.
DOA, all right, motherfucker.
And his next tat might just be a handful of those tiny skeletons on the side of his neck . . . a whole family of ’em.
He likes that idea a lot.
“You want me to take Hardy back with me?” Jamie asks, prompting Little Paris to turn to the Mustang’s backseat, where a little blond boy lies sleeping.
His own boy, Hardy.
Clutching that little toy six-shooter he’s so damn fond of.
A Glasser outlaw, just like his daddy.
Someday, all this will be his. These mountains, these woods and hills—all of Lower Wolf—as long as Little Paris don’t let it slip through his fingers.
And maybe someday too his boy will lay up on his daddy’s gravestone beneath them black cherry trees and let Little Paris whisper to him.
Little Paris leans through the window and puts the bag on the seat next to Hardy.
“Naw, no need to wake him. He can come on up the way with me. I won’t be long at all, and she’ll want to see him. Always does.”
Danny told him during one of his little Tamarack parties that pussy was gonna be the death of him, but Little Paris figures if that’s how he’s gonna go, he’s just fine with that.
Better than how Danny ended up.
—
Little Paris checks his own gun, a heavy Beretta slipped sideways in his jeans, and stares down at his boy and wonders what he’s dreaming and wishes he could sleep just one more day like that.
One last day.
Quiet.
Peaceful.
And not a goddamn care in the world.
DILLON
Dillon Mackey hits his first home run ever, just as his mama, Kara, drops dead in the bleachers.
The ball stays aloft in the hot, heavy air . . . spinning, spinning, spinning . . . even as Kara’s on-again, off-again boyfriend, Duane Scheel, falls out right after her.
Looking on, you might think Duane’s reaching for Kara—a gentle, almost protective gesture—but you’d be wrong. There’s never been anything gentle or protective about Duane Scheel. In and out of Big Sandy RDC since he was sixteen, he once beat a man senseless with a McDermott pool cue.
Once put a blue steel thirty-eight revolver against a Pakistani’s jaw in a holdup when he was barely fourteen, and that was ten years ago.