Infamous: (A Bad Boy Romantic Suspense)

by Noir, Mila

  “…so really, the Rider is like an avenging angel. Righting wrongs when no one else will,” said Annalisse, a tiny woman with a light, almost childlike voice. She had snowy white hair up in a bun and looked like the picture version of a grandmother from old stories. She also loved the gory details involved in every Rider-related death with a degree of relish that was a little frightening.

  “By cutting heads off. Seems a little extreme,” said Taylor.

  “Perhaps. But the Rider is from an older time, when justice was swift and brutal,” said Mabel.

  Annalisse nodded. “She didn’t have a choice, did she?” she asked. Taylor looked up sharply.

  “She? You think the Rider is a woman?” she asked. That was new. Every story assumed the Rider was male.

  “We do. Very probably the daughter of Montgomery Pinkerton. Her name was Mary Ellen,” said Annalisse.

  “Wait, Pinkerton? As in THE Pinkertons?” Taylor was riveted.

  “A cousin, we think. Not connected with the family in that way, but still carried the name,” Mabel said.

  “But the Pinkertons didn’t get to the States until the mid-1800s. And that was the Midwest,” said Taylor.

  “Well, that Pinkerton did. It’s not that uncommon a name elsewhere. And he settled here before the Revolutionary War by a good twenty years,” Annalisse said, sipping her own tea and nibbling on a ginger cookie.

  “Hm,” said Taylor, not entirely convinced. Still, this was the most interesting information she’d heard in a while. Certainly quite different from the standard narrative of the legend. “So why would Mary Ellen be the Rider? Doesn’t seem like a very womanly thing to do, setting people on fire, lopping heads off.”

  “She was killed for being a witch,” Dot said softly.

  “Wait, what? There’s no record of witch trials around here,” Taylor said.

  “Well, it wasn’t much of a ‘trial.’ And you know Sweethollow. The town expunged what records there were. Only a few accounts remain from local diaries they didn’t get. We keep them locked up,” Mabel said.

  “Oh,” said Taylor, feeling like she didn’t know the town she’d grown up in at all.

  “It was a mob. A lot of people had been getting ill, a few people died, and they became convinced it was witchcraft. It was probably actually the water and sanitation, but they didn’t know that. So they beat her, tortured her with water, and then eventually set her on fire and took off her head,” Dot said. It was the most words Taylor had ever heard her put together. Figured it was about something so horrific.

  “But why Mary Ellen?” Taylor asked.

  “She was young, a midwife, and made her own herbal remedies. And she was unmarried and apparently refused several suitors. Pretty much the exact recipe to be considered a witch when things went bad,” Mabel said.

  Taylor sighed, feeling angry. Being an outcast could have serious consequences. Taylor suddenly felt lucky she’d gotten out unscathed. In another time, she might have been like Mary Ellen.

  “Okay, that’s all horrible. But it doesn’t mean she turned into a ghost rider,” Taylor said, trying to cling to reality.

  “Well, except that she was a rider for the local militia and a secret spy against the British, too,” said Dot. Taylor stared.

  “What?” Taylor felt like she’d just stepped into some TV show plot that was half soap opera, half supernatural alterna-history. Things were starting to feel decidedly unreal.

  “Even though it all happened before the war, Mary Ellen was a staunch believer in the rights of the settlers here. So she did what she could to undermine British rule even before the war. She was only eighteen when she died,” Dot said.

  “Wow. But why not her father? Wouldn’t he want revenge for his daughter’s murder?” Taylor asked.

  “He left the area after she died and was not a rider himself, just an apple farmer. She fits better. And doesn’t it just subvert the expected in such a romantic way?” Annalisse laughed.

  “Well, yes, but we’re still talking about a ghost. That’s just not possible,” Taylor said.

  “You get to our age and you find a lot of things seem more possible. Plus, we’ve all seen her,” Mabel said. Taylor blinked. She knew Grams had, but she’d always assumed the rest of the Riderites just liked a good story.

  “Wait, all of you?”

  “Of course! Mostly when we were younger. She never hurt any of us,” said Dot, voice wistful.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Taylor said, trying to process it all. She didn’t want to call them liars; they clearly believed they’d really seen the Rider. And if it was a real person, they couldn’t have seen the person currently masquerading as it when they were young. Taylor felt more confused than ever.

  “It’s a lot to take in, dear,” said Mabel, patting her hand from across the table.

  “I just don’t know what it has to do with the Coulsons or the Saints. I don’t know why the Rider would be involved in any of it. Unless someone is using the Rider to cover up murder,” Taylor said with a sigh.

  “Oh, that’s easy, honey. The current murders are done by a man. Just like those poor girls back when you were young. The Rider would never do that. Someone within the Saints is doing them. If it was the real Rider, she wouldn’t be mucking about like whoever is doing these. Cruel person, whoever it is,” Dot said.

  “But the Rider cuts off people’s heads!” Taylor exclaimed.

  “Yes, but it’s quick and clean. No horrible fires. No drama or torture. And she doesn’t frame anyone else,” Annalisse said.

  “True. And she has a calling card.” Dot nodded.

  “She does? Grams never said that.” Taylor was looking between all of them as they looked at each other. “I never heard that before.”

  “Well, it’s not widely known. We’ve kept it to ourselves. Your grams said it was important that people not know all the details. So we could weed out the pretenders from those truly dedicated to the legend,” Mabel said.

  Taylor had to smile; it was exactly the kind of thing Grams would do. She was a little hurt her grandmother hadn’t shared it with her, but she understood. Taylor had never shown the same interest in the legend, and Grams took it all very seriously. God, she missed that woman.

  “Can you tell me what it is? It could help me figure this out. A lot,” Taylor pleaded. “A…friend of mine is being accused of these recent killings. Anything you know could help him,” she said.

  “For you, dear, but don’t go telling the wrong people,” said Mabel, very serious.

  “I won’t. I promise. On Grams’ name,” she said.

  “She leaves something white at the scene. A flower, a piece of cloth, but she always leaves something. If there’s nothing white, it wasn’t the real Rider,” Dot said with a definitive nod. Taylor started at that, remembering the starlike flower in the cemetery by the bust of the girl with only the name Mary on it. Something clicked. Finally. But she had to be sure.

  Taylor thought about what Powell had said about the Saints; he hadn’t mentioned anything white being found at that first scene. Of course, that didn’t mean anything. And in any case, a bunch of white items could just be a coincidence. She wasn’t sure how she could get access to information from the other scenes, but she had a feeling there wasn’t anything white at them.

  She had a pretty good feeling she knew what had happened now, and who was behind it. She didn’t know how he’d done it, but she knew why. And she knew why he was after her.

  ***

  Anton sat in a cell, the only person in the small jail, and wondered how they were going to pin this on him. He’d spent a really uncomfortable night on a cot, and his ribs ached from where he’d been hit. He was also really worried about Taylor. She was alone out there, probably concerned about him, with some crazy person who’d tried to wreck her car. It was infuriating to be stuck in here.

  He kept still, not wanting any of the officers to see him pace or look nervous in any way. He knew he was innocent, but it
wasn’t like anyone was going to believe him. Better to wait for his public defender and keep his mouth shut.

  Of course, they could keep him for twenty-four hours if they had probable cause. Or at least pretended they did. It wasn’t like anyone in town was going to rush his case or look that close until they had to. He could end up rotting in here for days.

  He ground his teeth, trying to figure a way out of it faster. If they really thought he was a cop killer, he could end up dead before he even got to a hearing. He had to get to Taylor. Protect her before something happened. Everything was just getting worse.

  He was just trying to figure out if he could escape somehow—maybe when they came to check on him—when Officer Nate Powell came in. He walked over to Anton’s cell and opened it.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” Anton said, sitting up.

  “Let’s go. The cameras are on a slight delay, but it won’t last. And you need to get out of here before either an arraignment where they’ll probably make sure you can’t post bail, or someone beats you to death,” Powell said. Anton stepped out, staring at Powell.

  “Why?” he asked. The cop shrugged.

  “Because the guys gunning for you are a bunch of thugs, and I know you didn’t do this,” said Powell.

  “That’s nice, but this could cost you your career. And you don’t know I’m innocent,” Anton said, not sure why he wasn’t just running.

  “I do, actually, I just can’t do anything about it. But your girlfriend might. But it won’t happen if you’re stuck in here. You won’t make it out. And you did something for me back in high school, so I owe you,” Powell said, not looking at him.

  “I did?” Anton was confused. He couldn’t think of what that could be.

  “Yeah. You kept the Saints from really hurting me once. Probably didn’t register to you, but they might have done serious damage, even killed me, if you hadn’t stepped in. So let’s get going before we get caught,” Powell said, leading the way.

  He took Anton down a hall and out the back. He pointed towards Nedry Avenue.

  “Take that and the other backstreets until you get to Rose Lane. I left Taylor a message. Don’t let anyone see you,” he said, handing Anton his jacket.

  “Thank you, Nate,” Anton said.

  “Yeah, yeah. Now get the hell out of here. And be careful. I don’t like where all of this is headed at all,” he said before turning away and heading back into the precinct.

  Anton hoped he’d be okay, though it seemed like Powell was smart enough to cover his own ass. He really didn’t remember what he’d done to warrant this kind of help, but he was grateful.

  Still, he had a lot of questions now. Like what the hell Taylor was working on and why Sweethollow seemed to have suddenly lost its damn mind.

  ***

  Taylor was on her way to the police station, on foot, which was going to take twice as long. She needed to see Anton and make sure he was okay and finally tell him what was going on. Or at least what she knew. Maybe she could talk to Nate, get some more police info or access to some files. She had a bad feeling there was no way to really prove what was going on, not without the killer trying again. Which she’d rather didn’t happen.

  More dead people was definitely something Taylor wanted to avoid. Especially since she felt like, if she’d realized sooner what was going on, she might have been able to do something about it. Hindsight, though. She couldn’t help that she hadn’t put certain things together from high school. She’d been a little preoccupied back then.

  She was heading towards Rose Lane so she could go around the back and scope it out when a pair of big hands grabbed her from behind and dragged her behind a building. She was about to scream when she heard Anton’s voice, low and urgent.

  “Quiet, Taylor. Cops are out looking for me. I think some of them know we’ve been seeing each other.”

  “How?” Taylor whispered. Feeling his body against hers reminded her of how much she’d missed him, alone in her bed last night. It had only been one day, and it was like it had been a year since they touched.

  It seemed Anton was having similar thoughts because he was starting to touch her all over, hands running over her back, his breath hot on the back of her neck. She could feel him through his pants and clearly danger was a powerful aphrodisiac.

  “I don’t know. Powell let me out. I was coming to find you,” he said, hands moving down to her waist.

  “I was coming to find you. I found out some things when I went to see some of my grandmother’s old friends. I was hoping I could get you out so we could look for something together,” she started to explain, and then his hands were cupping her breasts.

  “Anton! This isn’t the time!” she hissed, even though her body was letting her know in no uncertain terms that it WAS the time, right now, and please hurry up.

  “I can’t help it. It’s been too long,” he said, nuzzling the back of her ear. She was looking out from the back of the house, which she dearly hoped was abandoned or at least empty right now, at the street. Cars drove by, but the two of them were concealed by trees and bushes and the house itself.

  “It’s only been twenty-four hours,” she said, leaning back.

  “You missed me. Admit it,” he said, nuzzling her neck.

  “I admit nothing.” Taylor sighed, giving in. Adrenaline, fear, worry, and doubt had all combined and were now being channeled into something much simpler—desire. And it needed an outlet.

  Anton turned her around, pushed her up against the wall, and kissed her. His tongue was restless; this was not going to be slow and tender. Taylor couldn’t wait.

  She pulled at his pants, pushing her fingers along his stomach, feeling the firm muscles. And something else. Something hard and insistent.

  Anton lifted her, clutching her to him. She could feel how warm and wet she was. She bit at his neck, touching him down below. She needed him to be inside her. It was the only thing that made sense right now.

  Anton ripped her tights up one leg and pushed her underwear aside. Then he looked in her dark eyes and she nodded, pulling at him.

  Then he was thrusting, taking root in her, bringing them both a little sanity, skin to skin.

  Taylor bit her lip to keep from crying out. He was so deep inside her and she couldn’t stand it. Her body shook, shuddered, spiraled, and came. She held on to Anton, feeling like she was spinning out of control.

  Then she felt him steady her, let her body recover from her shattering.

  And then he began again.

  “Anton, oh my god…,” she whispered, holding on for what felt like dear life. This wasn’t sex, this was flying.

  “I know…I know…,” he said in her ear,. He felt like home inside her, hard and loving, rough and tender at the same time. She couldn’t get enough of the feeling. She wanted him to say inside her forever.

  “Come with me. Come with me,” she said, pulling at him, contracting muscles that drove him crazy.

  “Taylor…fuck…Taylor…,” he said, and then he was pumping into her, deeper, hard, his hand between them to bring her with him. She cried out softly in his ear lost herself as he poured himself into her with everything he was or wanted to be.

  They took a few minutes to recover, both breathing heavily, bodies still close and heated.

  Taylor wanted to feel embarrassed but she just…didn’t. She felt good. When she looked up, Anton was smiling at her.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she said, pulling away and getting her clothes right again.

  “Like what?” he asked innocently, doing the same.

  “Like…like…the cat that got the canary,” she said, hating the expression.

  He pulled her to him, laughing. “I can’t help it. You do things to me,” he said.

  “Things? Great, how specific,” she said. He kissed her soundly and she pulled away, trying not to smile.

  “Okay, okay. Down, boy. We have some work we still need to do,” Taylor said.<
br />
  “So, what do we do, Sherlock?” he asked.

  “Well, I need something from my grams’ house. And we need some files. Maybe Powell could help,” Taylor suggested.

  “He’s helped a lot already,” Anton said.

  “I figured that’s how you got out. He’s kind of like a guardian angel,” she said.

  “Yeah, and I really owe him now,” he said.

  “We both do. Let’s go to Grams’ house. I don’t think anyone knows I’ve been back there, except Susan. We can trust her. She was one of Grams’ oldest friends. We can at least stay there for the night and regroup,” Taylor said.

  They had to take back roads and streets, eventually ending up on the path her grams had once taken when she was running away, the one the Rider was supposed to use. These days, mostly teens and joggers were on it, though at this time of year most folks started going to the gym in the next town because it got too muddy and treacherous when it was dark. They kept their ears peeled but heard no one. Yet Taylor still felt this sense of awareness. Like they were being watched.

  She took Anton down one side of the path that got pretty steep about a mile from Grams’ house. She’d played there a lot as a kid and it hadn’t changed much, except for the litter being thicker. Bottles, wrappers, even a tire somehow. There always seemed to be a tire when it came to dump sites, no matter how far they were from an actual road.

  They crouched down behind the house where the gate was hanging out, rusted and peeling. No one seemed to be around in the failing light, but they went to the back door anyway. Taylor found an envelope wedged under it, bright orange. She grabbed it and they went in with a creak.

  Once they were in the kitchen, Taylor sat and opened the envelope. Like she’d suspected, it was from Powell. And it contained a report that she suspected no one had been allowed to see. Why it hadn’t been destroyed she couldn’t say; probably Powell had nabbed it for safekeeping.

  As she looked it over, Anton looked around. He’d never been in Grams’ house.