This didn’t bode well. Not at all, with the heaviness in his limbs and what looked like dust motes dancing in front of his eyes. His chest was tight, too tight.
He set off, breaths like hard little bullets in his lungs, hands grasping the box and the paper but feeling nothing.
Nothing.
He passed the coffee shop, then backtracked, blinking. Internet.
A look around showed no public computers.
At the counter, he asked one of those pierced kids, “Got computers here?”
“Um…” The girl stared thoughtfully at him, twisting one of those tunnel things below her bottom lip. In a surreal flash-forward, Clay pictured how that’d look in a few years, if she ever decided to take it out—skeletal teeth and gums a grisly peekaboo. The weird shit people did to their bodies. He almost laughed out loud at that—hysterical laughter. Not good. “Library, I guess?”
“Thanks,” he said, already halfway to the door.
“Nice tattoo, du—”
He walked outside, letting the door shut on her words. Stupid kid. Stupid, stupid kid.
And who would make sure nothing happened to that kid? Huh? A kid like that, stupid enough to put one of those things in her lip, wouldn’t know how to take care of herself.
Focus.
The library. He turned a half circle, noticed the to-go box of food in his hand, got a whiff of greasy steam, and dropped it in the nearest trash can on a wave of nausea. The library was in a tiny building that looked old, he remembered, over by the tracks on Railroad Avenue. He headed that way, feeling sharper. On a mission.
Inside, the woman behind the counter lifted her brows at him but didn’t say a word when he settled in front of one of the computers.
ATF Agent Nikolai Breadthwaite, he typed into the Google search bar, his shoulders and back tense to the point of pain.
Only a few hits appeared, all recent news pieces since the “accident,” and Clay lost a little of the tension that had been holding his bones together.
There was one photo, the same one over and over, released only after his death, no doubt. It was his official ATF ID shot. Bread was like him—eternally undercover. Had been like him. Clay had seen that badge. He’d made fun of Bread in the shot, called him a googly-eyed motherfucker. There wouldn’t be any more photos than that. Because now Bread was dead.
Clay stifled a laugh. Not the time to lose his shit. Again.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Only an insider could’ve figured out where Bread had been placed as he awaited trial. Only an insider could’ve gotten to him. Somebody with links to DOJ at the very least.
After half an hour spent sifting through articles that all said pretty much the same thing, he leaned back.
An accident, they said. But Clay knew it was bullshit. He pulled out his phone, ready to call Tyler, but stopped when the woman behind the counter cleared her throat.
Right. Library.
After shutting everything down and deleting the browsing history, he limped back outside, into the too-bright day, knowing he wouldn’t call Tyler. He couldn’t do that, couldn’t reach out at all, especially now that the only other guy who’d known what Clay knew was dead. The only other person who could testify. His safety depended on no one finding out where the hell he was. He was supposed to check in with McGovern, but he wouldn’t. Not if shit was going down like this.
Fuck. Maybe he should leave, go farther south?
No. No point, unless… Shit, they’d gotten to Bread, who’d stayed in the system, who’d stuck by the DOJ, who’d gone into WITSEC as they awaited trial.
No. He wasn’t running. He’d stay here, get these piece-of-shit tattoos removed, and wait. Because fuck if he’d become a fugitive. He was the law, for Christ’s sake, not the one on the run.
He stood up straighter, pulled his glasses back down over his eyes, and turned in a half circle.
The town sat, quiet and quaint. Hot and humid as hell. The buzz of summer insects tickled the back of his brain.
What should he do now? Get in touch with Tyler after all? No, Tyler might have a tap on his line. They might be watching him. What about McGovern? Could she be the rat? Weirder things had happened. She had family, which made her prime picking for ruthless bastards like the Sultans.
But no, she was the biggest stick-in-the-mud, straight-arrow agent he’d ever seen. He didn’t believe she could turn for a moment. Besides, she’d been the one who’d fought for him with the big guys, the one who’d understood that to be truly undercover, you had to live like your quarry. She got that. Not her.
Who the fuck was it?
Someone had given them his name the night of the raid. Some fucker had told the Sultans he was a cop and set them on his ass in ways nobody could’ve fucking imagined. Ape calling him in back, Jam and the others watching as Ape did his eyes, then knuckles, branding him.
“Handles’s out, but when he gets back, you’re a dead man.” Those fucking words.
Then the needle against his face, his lids screwed shut against Ape’s threat of popping his eyeballs with it.
Here, in sweet, innocent Blackwood, Clay stood and breathed, waited, watched as a couple in pink and white emerged from an antique place, arm in arm, and moved along the sidewalk to the ladies’ dress shop next door.
Leafy green trees lined both sides of the street, shading the red brick and white clapboard facades of one cutesy place after another—coffee shop, more goddamned antiques, the diner he’d always associate with Bread’s death. Beyond that, a little indent and that pub—the Nook.
A drink. Yeah. He’d go for a drink. Anything to obliterate the guilt at being the last one standing—and the knowledge that if he fell, there’d be nobody left to make those bastards pay.
Clay Navarro had never in his life felt quite so alone.
* * *
George waited for Andrew Blane to show up for an hour and a half that evening. She would probably have stayed even longer if the animals hadn’t needed her. That and she’d caught up on every bit of paperwork she could find, so no more excuses. No reason to stay at the clinic.
As she locked up and made her way to her car alone, she realized two things—both pathetic. One, she’d been looking forward to seeing the big man again. And two, his absence made her feel jilted, which was patently ridiculous.
Great. I need to feel needed. And then, when I’m not needed… Lord, did she truly have no life at all?
As she pulled into her driveway, rather than continue thinking about Andrew Blane, she decided to concentrate on home. Home, where things didn’t go smoothly unless she was there.
Which wasn’t entirely true, either.
The thing about her place was it was all moving parts. No, not moving parts, but bits and pieces that, together, made up an ecosystem. Almost self-contained, her garden depended on three things from the outside: sunlight, rain, and George.
She liked that dependence. She liked being needed.
When she found a bright-purple sticky note stuck to her front door, she initially assumed it was some erroneous delivery—because no one ever visited.
She read it. Come over for dinner! I got wine! ;) Something inside her did a strange little unexpected flip-flop.
George rushed guiltily through feeding the animals. She should have watered the garden, too, since the leaves were yellowing and there was no hint of rain on the horizon, but who had time when you had a dinner invite stuck to your door? Out back, she locked the chickens up, spared thirty seconds for Leonard’s belly rub, and paused on the steps.
Laughter drifted over the other side of the fence and then words. “Hey, George!”
“Gabe?”
“Yeah! Mom says you might come over for dinner.”
“Yes. I’m on my way.”
“Good! I wanna show you my egg baby. Maybe you ca
n help tell Mom to get me a puppy.”
“Oh, I’m not—”
“I can hear you, you know!” Jessie yelled from somewhere inside her house.
“I’ll be right over!” George said in return. “Need me to bring anything?”
“No. I’m defrosting a bunch of crap from the store. That’s as fancy as we get around here.”
George smiled.
* * *
“’Nother one, mate?” the British bartender asked, and Clay nodded. Nodding and drinking—about all he’d done for the past couple of hours. Or… He looked around for a clock.
“Time is it?” he asked.
“Half eight.”
“Seriously? Shit. Cancel that. What do I owe you?”
“Sure you don’t want something to eat?” The guy’s eyes narrowed strangely on him, and Clay had a moment of clarity—I must be drunk.
“Nah. Thanks.”
“Here,” the guy said, sliding his tab onto the bar in front of him. Jesus, this place was cheap. He’d been drinking for hours, and the check was just around twenty bucks. He threw a couple of bills onto the bar and got off the stool, catching his foot in one of the legs before righting it. Too loud. Clumsy.
“You all right?”
“Good.”
“I’ll get your change.”
“Keep it.”
The guy’s brows raised. “Thank you.” He smiled and did one of those half-bow things dudes like that could pull off. Clay turned. Another step, and Clay stiffened when a hand landed on his shoulder. The Brit had come around the bar, apparently. “You all right to drive, mate?”
“Not driving.”
A nod, and Clay walked to the door, then outside into the oppressive heat. He turned toward the skin clinic. Dark. She was gone. Fuck. He’d missed his appointment, which meant… He swallowed. Had she waited for him?
Nah. She wouldn’t do that. She was nice, but she had a life, a job. Not like him, whose sole purpose right now was those fucking appointments.
Right. And then I go and miss one.
At the clinic, he tried the door, just in case, but there was no point, was there? He knocked a couple of times, pounded the door for good measure.
“Doc left a while ago,” a deep, lazy voice drawled from somewhere farther behind him.
Clay turned, squinting until he saw a man—the sheriff who’d pulled him over his first day here. Small but strong-looking—sitting on a bench right in front of the MMA school. Fuck if he hadn’t just passed right in front of him and not seen him in the night.
“Yeah. Figured.”
For a few silent seconds, the two men sized each other up. Whatever he saw, the other man decided to keep the conversation going.
“See you’re still here, son.”
“Yep.”
Clay sucked in a lungful of thick, heavy air, which didn’t even begin to clear the booze from his head.
“Blane, right?”
“S’ right, Sheriff.”
“You hidin’ out in Blackwood, Mr. Blane, or you come to make trouble?” Clay opened his mouth, and Sheriff Mullen shushed him. “Nah. Don’t say it. Don’t need to hear your lies. I’m in charge here, though, and I’d rather you keep whatever brand of trouble you got outside of my town.”
Clay nodded, with a quick look around him. Where were the TV cameras filming this ridiculous cowboy banter? “Not looking for trouble…sir.”
“Good.”
He sucked in a few breaths and felt his back loosen when the other man stood up and turned to walk away. Clay watched him go a few steps, then swing back around.
“Noticed you doing that limping jog around town.” He indicated the gym behind him with a thumb. “If you’re looking for a workout, you should come on in and check out the gym. Wouldn’t be so hard on that bum leg as all that running.”
Clay’s brows rose at that. His eyes flicked to the glow of lights coming from the gym.
“Don’t think you’d like my kind of fighting in there.”
The sheriff did a little scoffing laugh, managing to come off as both wise and condescending, which was really a pretty good trick.
“Don’t worry. We’ve got our share of assholes who think they’re tougher than they are. You sober up and come on in tomorrow, son. We’ll see what kinda fighter you are. Tell whoever’s at the door you’re my guest.”
“Why?”
“Hmm?”
“Why are you inviting me?”
“It’s like I tell the parents around here: know where your kids are. They’re gonna get shit-faced no matter what you do, so you might as well keep them at home.” He smirked. “Or at least in the field out back. And, I mean, look at you.” He waved at Clay’s face, taking in the rest of him with a lazy move. “Don’t know when you got out, no idea why you’ve got 5–0 inked onto your face, but I’d say you belong where someone can keep an eye on you.” The man’s smile widened again, revealing a perfect, artificial-looking line of bright-white teeth. “Course, a little birdie told me two of my favorite local meth heads showed up in the hospital Saturday night all broken to bits, tripping their asses off and spouting some bull about how a tattooed giant tore ’em apart.”
Clay nodded. He felt a wave of respect for this tough-looking little man. “Better the devil you know.”
“Exactly. You clean us out of weekend entertainment, and there won’t be a damn thing left for the sheriff’s office to do anymore. So, you see I might be a little confused as to just who the hell you are, with your prison tattoos and that death sentence on your face. And I’m curious as to what you might be doing in my town. But I’m not entirely sure I want you gone just yet.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
The sheriff’s eyes flicked up to the clinic sign and back down to Clay; his smile turned smaller, sly. “Figured as much. Anyway, you come on in and show us some of those fancy moves you might or might not have used on our local cranksters, and I’ll give you something to occupy yourself with while you squat in my town—keep you from breaking a nail trying to hold off my other local troublemakers. Mutually beneficial.”
Jesus, the man had attitude. Old and small, but showing absolutely no fear. Clay smiled, his first one of the day—or was it year?—and, surprising even himself, nodded. “What time?”
“Come in at noon,” the old dude said before starting off. “You can kick my ass for lunch.”
* * *
On her way to Jessie’s, George grabbed a jar of homemade strawberry jam, some brown paper, and raffia, then ran outside to pick a few zinnias from the back of the garden.
You didn’t go anywhere empty-handed. That was something her mother had taught her early on. Hastily wrapped gifts in hand, she rounded the house from the side and headed over.
Inside, the place was sparsely furnished—short, brown coffee table, its veneer cracked; a fat, tan sofa, with worn patches on the arms and stains on the cushions. The floor was covered with carpeting, which she wouldn’t have guessed before coming inside, and the fireplace appeared to be sealed shut. Too bad. Pull up the rug and open up the chimney, and the place could actually be quite picturesque.
“Happy new house!” George said, handing the jam and bouquet to Jessie.
“Oh. Wow. You didn’t have to do this. Thank you!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. So, you’re all moved in!”
“Yeah.” Jessie looked around, lips compressed. “We don’t have all that much.”
“Better clean and neat than a hoarder like me.”
“You’re not a hoarder.”
George raised a brow at Jessie.
“Seriously, your place is awesome. It’s got character.”
“Yeah!” Gabe chimed in. “Candles and cushions and rocking chairs and stuff. You’ve got all those blankets and those owl statues and the lamp of the
Chinese woman and those paintings and—”
“Okay, G. Let’s get you in pj’s.”
“But George just got here.”
“Yes, well, remember our deal? Pj’s first, then dinner, then teeth.”
“And a game?”
“I don’t believe video games were ever mentioned.”
“Awwwwwww. Mom!”
“Look,” Jessie said with a sigh. “I’ll read you a story, okay?”
“George can read to me tonight.” The child looked at George, and she could do nothing but smile. He was adorable. Really, truly adorable, with his sprinkling of freckles and amber eyes, just like his mom’s. He may be manipulating her, but she loved it.
I want what they have, she thought, pushing back a rogue wave of envy. “I’ll read to you.”
“No. No, actually, I want you to tell me a story.”
“Tell you one?”
“Yeah, like from your head, not from a book.”
George blinked. She didn’t think she had any stories in her. Did she?
“Um.” She cleared her throat, caught Jessie’s eye roll, and went on with a laugh. “Sure.”
Dinner was an odd assortment of appetizers, all thrown together on a platter, with a bottle of cheap white wine. Unfamiliar though it all was, George loved it—every second of it.
“All right, G, you gotta get those teeth brushed.”
“Come on, Mom. You said I could stay up and—”
“No way! Brush your teeth and—”
“Fine. But I want that story.”
George smiled. “Just come get me when you’re ready.”
She watched mother and son traipse off down the hall, her heart a little tight in her chest as she listened to the arguments, brushing, and splashing. Finally, a door opened, and Jessie came back up the hall to whisper, “Not sure what’s going on. Usually, he reads to himself, but…maybe it’s the new house? Anyway, you don’t have to do this.”
“It’s fine,” said George, meaning it. “I want to.”
Gabe’s room was the only fully furnished room in the house. This was where money had been spent. Kid stuff all over, bright colors, comic book characters. Spider-Man sheets and Pixar posters.
Under Her Skin Page 39
