Sunday Morning Breakfast Serial - Who in the @#$*& is Boone Carter?

Who in the @#$^ is Boone Carter?
Chapter Whatever


It took a few phone calls to find them.  They were registered at the Hyatt.  No surprise.  Jacob (and I had a sinking feeling it really was Jacob) likes to go in style.  He justifies it by saying that a cheap hotel is the fastest way to scare of a high dollar mark.  And yes, he does call them marks.  Just not to their face, of course.

My stomach was roiling as I picked up my keys and headed down to the truck.  I needed to go see for myself. . . needed to be sure.  But I didn't want to. 

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

The word kept running through my mind like an obscene mantra.  My past, the past I'd run so far and fast from, looked to finally have caught up with me. 

I shook myself.  "Stop it Carter.  Stop now.  You're not a fifteen year old kid any more.  You're a man.  If it's Jacob, you'll deal with it, and him."  It was true.  I'd grown up in the years since I'd left, and not just physically.  Still, I couldn't help but remember that last night.

It had been cold.  Damned cold.  Cold enough that the hairs in your nose froze when you took a breath.  I was supposed to be in bed, but I couldn't sleep.  Sara, the love of my life, was in labor.  Not my baby.  Nope.  I wasn't old enough to be given a wife, and she was too pretty for them to leave her alone until I was.   Never mind that it was what we both wanted.  It was irrelevant.  The only people whose wants were important were Abe and his oldest son, Jacob.  So she was the youngest wife of Abraham himself.   It was supposed to be a big f'ing honor.  I know she wasn't honored, and I had spent the last year avoiding my 'spiritual leader' so that I didn't do or say something that would earn me an even worse beating than the last one.

A scream tore through the night, and through my soul.  Yeah, women in labor scream.  It happens.  But this . . . this was Sara, and it was wrong, worse somehow.  Casting a furtive glance to make sure none of the men on guard could see me I crept up to the window.  Using my sleeve I wiped a clear spot on the part of the glass that wasn't iced over. 

Sara was on the bed, her eyes closed.  There was blood.  So much blood.  Something was wrong.  I heard my mother whispering urgently to Jacob's mother, Miriam.  "She needs a hospital.  We're going to lose them both."

"You know better than that.  She's underage.  No hospital."

"Talk to him.  You have to at least try.  She'll die."

Miriam shook her head, her lips compressed tightly.  Looking at her I saw . . . something in her expression.  Grim satisfaction.  Sara was lovely, and young, and had been a favorite of Abraham.  The older woman might not kill her outright, but she'd be glad to see her dead, glad not to have to share her husband with a smart-mouthed slip of a girl.

My mother saw it too.  Her eyes blazed in anger.  Fast as a snake her hand shot up.  She slapped Miriam hard enough to send her stumbling into the wall. 

"Bitch."  Abraham's wife had a bright red handprint on one side of her face and blood at the corner of her mouth.  "You'll pay for that."  She stomped out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her.  Even from where I stood I could hear the bolt shoot home.

My mother wasted no time.  She scrambled over to the window, unlocked it and pulled it open.  "Come, quickly.  We don't have much time."