Kick Start (Dangerous Ground 5)

by Josh Lanyon

  Will reached over and turned the volume down to the non-head-exploding range.

  Grant scowled, gaze still locked on the winding road.

  “Lifehouse, right?” Will identified. A band and a song he was very familiar with after the long drive to Oregon. “Taylor likes them too.”

  Grant reached over and punched the button for a new CD. “Sorry. I’m actually kind of tired of them.”

  There was a short silence while the CD player noisily shuffled through its selections.

  The Fray came on. Another of Taylor’s favorites. Will opened his mouth, but he felt Taylor’s elbow dig into his ribs.

  Yeah, maybe not.

  Taylor said, “What did you think of Cousin Dennis, Grant? Did you have any time to form an opinion?”

  Grant shrugged. “He seemed okay. I didn’t pay a lot of attention to him.”

  Will said, “Do you know what his story was? Did Pop say?”

  Grant shook his head. “Something to do with getting on the wrong side of the owner of a private club in South Florida.”

  Will could practically hear the calculator whirring between Taylor’s ears, but it didn’t take a genius to work this out. South Florida had been a mob stomping ground since the days of Al Capone and Meyer Lansky. So it was pretty much what Will had figured. Cousin Dennis had got on the bad side of some good fellas.

  Mist Bend looked just like Will remembered. Old houses and small family businesses. The area had been first settled in 1874. It had started out as a farming community, but its main industry these days was logging. There was little to convince the next generation to stay put and invest, and nothing to attract tourists. In Will’s opinion, it was the perfect place to retire one day. Except now of course, his retirement plans would be contingent on what Taylor wanted.

  He gave Taylor a sideways look. Meeting it, Taylor raised his eyebrows. And Will shook his head, smiling faintly.

  Grant dropped them off in front of the police station on Bridge Street. It was a small, square brick building with bullet-proof windows, cement flower planters, and a flag pole positioned in the single square of lawn.

  Taylor climbed out of the truck, then Will. He leaned into the cab. “I’m just going to say hi to Jack Hardy and grab my keys. Why don’t you join us for a beer?”

  “Thanks. I’ve got to get back,” Grant said, looking straight ahead.

  “To do what? Watch wrestling? Come on, Grant. You can spare time for one beer.”

  Grant faced him, his expression tight. “No, I can’t, William.”

  “Suit yourself.” Will slammed the cab door shut a lot harder than he had to.

  Grant gunned the motor and roared away down the wide, mostly empty street. Will stared after him.

  “Okay, I admit it,” Taylor said, behind him. “I should have stayed home this trip. My being here is complicating the situation.”

  “The hell,” Will exclaimed. And though he had privately thought the same thing before they left for Oregon, Grant’s rude and mule-headed behavior had completely changed his mind. He turned on Taylor. “I want you here. You belong here.”

  “Sure,” Taylor said. “But I just —”

  “I don’t. Come on.”

  Will led the way up the cement walk. Despite the bullet-proof glass, the entrance was an ordinary swinging glass door. He pushed through.

  “Holy shit,” said a heavy-set bald man of about thirty, rising from the desk in a glass fronted office. “Is that the Will Brandt?”

  “Jack Hardy, is that you?” Will returned. “You’re Chief of Police now? Didn’t anyone else want the job?”

  “No. Nobody else wanted the job. Why would they? It’s a lousy job.” Jack shook Will’s hand.

  “This is my partner, Taylor MacAllister.” This time Will didn’t care what interpretation Jack or anybody else put on partner. He was getting good and goddamned sick of worrying about how other people felt about his personal and private life. “Jack and I went to high school together about a hundred years ago.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jack.” Taylor offered his hand.

  “High school? We played football together. Took the Lumberjacks all the way to the state championships twice. Those were the days. Our current team’s on a ten-game losing streak.” Jack pointed to a series of framed photographs of the Mist Bend Lumberjacks in action. “This guy was the best quarterback we’ve had in twenty years.” He shook Taylor’s hand. “You another fed?”

  “Used to be.”

  “We’re flying solo now,” Will said.

  “No shit? You left the DSS?”

  “We decided to go into business for ourselves. Security consulting.”

  “Security consulting? What’s that entail?”

  “Anything it needs to,” Taylor said, and they all laughed.

  “I hear that,” Jack said. He handed Will’s keys over. “Your vehicle’s in the parking lot out back. Your dad said you’re not pressing charges?”

  “No. I forgot I told my cousin he could borrow my SUV if he needed to.”

  Jack guffawed. “Another one of the crazy Brandt cousins, is that the story?”

  “That’s the story.”

  “Have it your way.” Jack’s fair, plump face grew serious. “You know Jem Dooley is out?”

  “Yeah. Seems he dropped by this morning to say hi.”

  “Anybody else and I’d say it was all bluster, but I’m not so sure about Jem. There was always something not quite right about that guy.”

  “He just got out of prison. It’s hard to believe he’d risk going back this soon.” Will asked Taylor, “What did you think of him?”

  Taylor shrugged. “You don’t have to be smart to be dangerous.”

  “I agree with your partner,” Jack said. “I think Bill needs to keep an eye out for Jem.”

  * * * * *

  “You want to grab some lunch now?” Will said, as he and Taylor walked out to the parking lot. “Or you want to see the sights?”

  “Let’s eat.” Taylor’s sunglasses hid most of the bruising around his eyes, but that split lip looked painful as hell. Will, still smarting in tender places from his collision with cardboard boxes and trash bags earlier in the week, felt a jab of sympathy.

  “How about I take you to the place with the best selection of microbrews in town? You can drown your sorrows.”

  “My only sorrow is Cousin Dennis is out of my reach.”

  “That’s my boy.” Will gave Taylor’s shoulder a friendly bump with his own.

  They drove to Tucker’s Tavern, which was a rustic-looking building with a giant mill wheel out front and an old-fashioned painted tavern sign with a mermaid patting a dolphin. What the mermaid and dolphin had to do with anything, Will had never understood, but the sign had hung there as long as he could remember.

  He held the front door for Taylor and followed him inside. It was dark and quiet, except for a radio playing from a back room. The tables and bar were empty. A tall, curvy young woman with waist-long brown hair was wiping down tables. She smiled hello. Then her expression changed. She dropped her yellow sponge. “Oh my God. Will Brandt?”

  Will looked closer. And closer still. His jaw dropped. “I don’t believe it!”

  She threaded her way through the tables, and he met her halfway, picking her up. “Madonna Agnelli?”

  She was grinning, shaking back that brown-honey waterfall of hair. “Not Agnelli anymore. I married Jim Tucker.” She gestured to the bar and the taps. “Home sweet home.”

  “Jimmy Tucker. No way!”

  Madonna laughed. “That’s right. Your archrival, Will.”

  It occurred to Will that he was still hugging her, that her long, shapely legs were wrapped around him, that they were not in college anymore, and that his boyfriend was watching their reunion with a profound and utter silence.

  “Jim’s a lucky guy,” Will said sincerely, setting her on her feet. “You look great.” He turned to Taylor. “Taylor, this is…”

  “The famous M
adonna,” Taylor supplied.

  “Right,” Will said hastily, not at all sure about that expression on Taylor’s face. “Madonna, this is my partner, Taylor MacAllister.”

  “Nice to mee —” Madonna offered a hand. Her eyes widened. “What happened to you?”

  “I walked into a tree.” Taylor shook hands.

  “You’re bleeding again,” Will observed, frowning at the scarlet trickling from Taylor’s right nostril.

  Taylor touched his nose. “Damn. I am. Do you have a washroom somewhere?”

  Madonna pointed out the way and Taylor excused himself.

  “That’s one nice-looking man. Even with his face bashed in,” Madonna observed, as Taylor moved out of earshot.

  Will smiled faintly. “Yeah. He is.”

  She tilted her head thoughtfully. “So when you say he’s your partner, do you mean…?”

  “I do, yeah.”

  She laughed without bitterness and shook her head. “Well, that answers one question.”

  “I bet it answers more than one question.”

  Madonna laughed ruefully. “Maybe it does.”

  Will drew a deep breath, but he didn’t begin to know how to explain, and it was too late anyway, really. “You really do look fantastic, Maddy,” he said instead, lamely.

  “Thanks. You’re still pretty gorgeous yourself, William.”

  “I thought you moved to Chicago?”

  “I did. But my dad died two years ago —”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. And my mom’s getting on, so I moved home. And then Jim and I started seeing each other. We got married last fall.”

  “I don’t know why that seems so…right. He was always crazy about you.”

  “What about you? You work for the Secret Service?”

  “Diplomatic Security. Used to. We’re freelance now.” Will heard the restroom door swinging open again. Funny how he never lost his awareness of where Taylor was at any given moment.

  “Oh wow.” Madonna was smiling reminiscently. “And Grant’s in the Marines?”

  “Shipping out to Afghanistan this month.”

  “It’s so crazy. Sometimes it seems like only yesterday we were going to football games and —”

  “More football?” Taylor inquired, joining them again.

  Madonna laughed. “I bet you’ve heard all you can take of Will’s glory days. Will’s one of our hometown heroes. Sit anywhere you want, you two. I’ll bring over a couple of menus.”

  She went out to the kitchen. Will pulled out a chair at a table near the unlit fireplace. “Okay?” he asked Taylor.

  “Fine.”

  “You sure?”

  Taylor gave him a level look.

  “You can’t blame me for asking. The spontaneous hemorrhaging is a little distracting.”

  Taylor snorted and then put a careful hand to his nose. “Ow.”

  Madonna reappeared with menus. “What can I get you two to drink?”

  “What have you got in the way of microbrews?” Taylor asked.

  Madonna proceeded to extol the virtues of Oregon’s top three microbreweries: McMenamins, Deschutes, and Full Sail.

  Taylor opted for McMenamins’ Sleepy Hollow Nut Brown. Will went for Deschutes’ Cascade Ale.

  Madonna said to Will, “You know Jem Dooley is out?”

  “Yep.”

  She nodded and withdrew. Taylor said, “She’s not at all how I pictured her.”

  “How did you picture her?” Will was trying to wrap his brain around the idea of Taylor spending a minute’s thought trying to visualize his old girlfriend.

  “Blonde. Cheerleader. Not too bright.”

  Will spluttered, “Not too bright?”

  Taylor shrugged. “She seems smart enough though. And nice. And I bet she liked camping.”

  Will laughed. “She did. She was a great little camper. Good kayaker too.” He really had loved her. Still did in a funny way. His heart had flipped when he’d seen her standing there. But that was how he’d finally come to terms with being gay, because as much as he’d loved Madonna, as much as they had in common, he’d finally realized he was not going to be happy or satisfied with her. Or any woman. He gazed at Taylor across the table and felt such a wave of closeness and affinity to this man who was his partner in every sense of the word, it startled him.

  The object of all this feeling was frowning over the menu. “No wonder I’m starving. I haven’t had anything to eat since that damn chili last night.”

  “You need protein,” Will said. “And iron. Order a burger.” Closeness and affinity aside, the part-time vegetarianism drove him nuts.

  “Hell.”

  Will glanced up.

  Taylor was feeling for his cell phone. “Richard didn’t call back.”

  “Bahrain is how many hours ahead? Ten? Eleven?”

  “Eleven.” Taylor checked his cell phone. “No. He didn’t call.”

  He chewed worriedly on his lip, and Will said, “Look, if he doesn’t call we’ll find another way.”

  Taylor threw him an impatient look, but he put his phone away, and returned to scanning the menu. Probably worried they couldn’t afford more than salads.

  Madonna returned with their beers, they ordered their burgers, and sat for a few companionable minutes sipping their brews.

  This was good. This was what he’d wanted on those occasions Will had pictured bringing Taylor up to Mist Bend. Just this. Just being together. Showing Taylor where he’d grown up. Sharing the things he’d never had anyone to share with before.

  “Maybe we should pay Jem Dooley a visit,” Taylor remarked.

  “And we would do that why?”

  “Be proactive. Head him off at the pass?”

  “It might not be heading him off. It might be stirring him up.”

  “He came looking for your dad this morning.”

  Dooley had, and Will didn’t like the thought of that, but things were not always what they seemed. That was something he’d learned from growing up with his dad. Over the years, more than one ex-con had shown up to thank Bill Brandt for changing or even saving his life.

  Not that it was very likely Jem Dooley had showed up to pay his respects.

  But he hadn’t necessarily arrived to start a war either.

  “You want to piss Pop off, hunting trouble with Jem Dooley would be the way.”

  Taylor lifted a shoulder. “I just think it would be better dealt with while we’re all here.”

  That struck home with Will — not least because of Taylor’s automatic and unconscious identifying with his family — but the assumption that trouble was inevitable was not incontrovertibly correct. “And that’s another thought Pop would not appreciate. The idea that he couldn’t take care of himself.”

  Madonna arrived with their burgers and they chatted for a few more minutes. When she walked away, Taylor said, “Did you notice she looks like the mermaid on the sign out front?”

  Will inhaled his beer and started to cough.

  Chapter Six

  As they stepped out onto the sidewalk outside Tucker’s Tavern, Will was saying, “What would you like to do now? You want to see where they filmed Ring of —”

  Taylor missed the rest of it, his attention caught by a glimpse of a broad-shouldered figure in a black leather jacket, vanishing into the Laundromat across the street. He stopped walking.

  Will glanced back and stopped too. “What’s up?”

  Taylor started patting his pockets, miming someone who had misplaced their phone. Head down, so that his face could not be seen, he said, “Don’t turn around. I think Mr. Black is in the Laundromat.”

  Will did not look around, but he sounded confused as he said, “Who?”

  “The guy in the Porsche who was following us up the I-5.” Taylor glanced back at the tavern door. He pointed at it and said, “Can you act like you’re going to get your SUV and cut around to the back of that place?”

  “Okay.” Will still sounded confused, bu
t was now businesslike. “Are you carrying?”

  “No.”

  “He might be. So watch yourself.”

  “Roger.” Taylor turned and strode back into Tucker’s Tavern.

  “Hi,” Madonna said, looking up from clearing their table. “Did you forget something?”

  “Just wanted to say that was a great burger.” Taylor stared out the window at the street outside. No sign of his quarry.

  “Oh. Thanks. Glad you liked it.”

  …thirteen…fourteen…fifteen…sixteen…

  Taylor pulled out his phone. He threw a quick, absent, “See you next time,” and walked out of the tavern again, looking down at the small screen. Then he glanced across the street, waved to an imaginary Will and sprinted across.

  Will met him in the doorway of the Laundromat. “He’s not in here.”

  “He didn’t come out the front. I’ve been watching.”

  “I guess he could have slipped out the back before I got around the building.”

  Taylor looked past him to a couple of women folding laundry and a pregnant teen in a chair by the window, reading Seventeen magazine.

  “I sure as hell didn’t mistake him for anybody in here.”

  “Okay. Well.” Will was watching him. “What do you want to do?”

  Taylor ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He looked up and down the street. There were a couple of pickup trucks, a red Corolla, a green Volkswagen, and a Jeep. No Porsche. There were a few people, women in jeans and jackets, guys in ball caps and corduroy or plaid shirt coats. No burly, bearded dude in a black leather jacket.

  “You want to look for him?” Will asked.

  “How the hell could he disappear in under a minute?”

  “He had to have seen that you made him. He must have gone straight through the Laundromat and out the back.”

  Taylor appreciated that Will did not question whether Mr. Black existed at all. Nice to know one of them was certain. Maybe he was starting to see things. “And went where?”

  “Ducked into one of the businesses on either side?” Will said briskly, “Let’s have a look for him.”

  But there was no sign of Mr. Black in the Realty office or the pet grooming service on either side of the Laundromat. There was no sign of him in the coffee house or hardware store on either side of those businesses either. There was no sign of Mr. Black anywhere.