by CJ Lyons
Paul had basically asked her to leave her job as well. And her bosses at the FBI would love it if she made life easy for them and quit before they had to find a place for her. They were just biding their time until they could find cause to dismiss her without embarrassing the Bureau. Did Caitlyn really want to work in that kind of atmosphere?
She slid her arm away from Jessalyn, touched her fingers to the scar at her temple. Maybe Mom and Paul were right. She couldn’t believe she was even thinking it, but maybe they were all right. She should quit while she was ahead.
Standing, she turned to the window and drew back the curtain. The mountain vista was comforting, welcoming her home. To her real home.
A life without the Bureau. She couldn’t even imagine it. Her entire life she’d dreamed of being a FBI agent. It wasn’t just her dream, it was her dad’s, the one thing she could do for him, know he would be proud of her even if he wasn’t here to see it.
What would Dad do? She pressed her palm against the cold glass rattling in the winter wind cutting across the mountain range. Would he want her to quit, take the easy way out?
Anger spiked through the memory of his face, his blood. Just because he took the easy way out …
Jessalyn sensed her ambivalence, rose and stood behind her. “You don’t have to decide now. Take some time off. Go to the beach with Paul. You deserve a break.”
“I can’t. Lena—”
“Lena isn’t family. You don’t even know the girl. She’s none of your concern. Besides, you said yourself the local authorities could do a better job in finding her. It’s not your case. You need to take time, focus on what really matters, what you want for your future.” She lay her hand on Caitlyn’s shoulder, rubbing her arm in slow, soothing motions, just as she had when Caitlyn was a little girl.
Seemed like Caitlyn had spent most of her life learning how to calm down, swallow her anger and outrage. Jessalyn had taught her well. Maybe that’s really why she needed her job. Not just for the prestige of working for the FBI, of living her father’s dream. She needed it because it let her channel the emotions she kept buried into something productive, something bigger than her.
A chance to change the world. Stop the bad guys. Maybe save lives.
Even save herself.
The Bureau frowned on the idea of its agents being heroes. Indoctrinated them into understanding that they were simply well-trained cogs in a paramilitary machine, following orders, protecting their country and its citizens. They were anything but “special,” replaceable by the next agent waiting in line to serve and protect.
And Caitlyn refused to serve. At least not blindly. She’d risen fast—promoted to supervisory special agent years before most—because of her inability to keep her head down and obey orders. She always had to push things, which is how she’d broken the cases she’d broken. The Bureau loved the good press she brought them, hated the truths about their own inadequacies she exposed with her maverick methods, and wanted her either gone or safely encased in a bubble-wrapped office tied down in red tape where she could do them no harm.
She’d hit the ceiling at the FBI. Hit it hard, at meteoric velocity.
But quit?
Shrugging her mother’s hand away, she turned around. “I can’t, Mom.”
Jessalyn’s posture went rigid, pulling back from Caitlyn. “You mean you won’t. Stubborn, stubborn child. That’s what you are. Can’t look past yourself to see the way you’re hurting the people who love you most.”
Sharp words. With an added edge since Jessalyn spoke the truth. Caitlyn blinked back her pain. “I’m sorry. I’m not quitting.”
Her mother stepped away, her face twisted with rage and regret. “I’m sorry, too, Caitlyn. Believe me, I’m sorry, too.”
She walked out, not even bothering to slam the door on her daughter.
* * *
While the regular club members headed off on the run to Gatlinburg, Poppy and Caruso sat smoking cigars by the fire in the huge stone fireplace that filled one wall of the farmhouse’s living room. Goose and the national club enforcer, a guy named Hopper who said nothing, stood guard at the door.
It was meant to be an honor, standing there in the presence of Reaper greatness, but Goose had too many things on his mind to stay still and the conversation between the two presidents was boring. Stuff about enrollment and what to do about members not paying their dues because they were out of work. Caruso talked the way he looked: like he was some kind of CEO of a Fortune 500 company instead of running a bunch of outlaw bikers. It was funny watching Poppy try to mimic the national president’s cultured manners, but Goose was itching with a need to get out of there and back to work.
“So you don’t want me to keep following Tierney?” he asked during a break while Poppy and Caruso refilled their bourbon glasses. They were drinking the good stuff: Maker’s 46.
“Not for now.” Poppy and Caruso exchanged glances. “If Weasel isn’t back soon, we might have another job for you. Can you handle it?”
“Sure. Whatever you need.” It was the only right answer with the chapter president and national president staring you down. “Where is Weasel?”
Goose hoped the club VP was doing something with the cash the Daytona crew brought up with them. Wilson was tailing Weasel in the hope that he’d lead them to the money. They had to find it before the Reapers transferred it to the casino, where it’d be lost forever.
“None of your business,” Poppy snapped. Goose returned to leaning against the wall, keeping in the shadows. Waited for Poppy and Caruso to decide what the hell they wanted him to do. Hopper slanted a glare at him with an eye roll that said, Amateur.
It’d be great if they put him back on Tierney. Following her gave him the freedom to search for the money. They didn’t realize that he could keep perfect tabs on her from his phone and laptop. Of course, watching her in person was more fun, but business before pleasure. He smiled at the memory of how she’d handled the situation earlier, almost reducing Tiny to tears. All without a drop of blood shed.
“He has a point,” Caruso said, his words emerging slow as if he’d thought long and hard about the topic. “What are we going to do about your Agent Tierney?”
Poppy jerked, covered the movement by reaching for his glass. “Nothing. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“You should have told me a fed was snooping around.” Caruso’s tone was undercut with disapproval.
“You don’t need to worry about her. I have leverage if we need to turn her.” That made Goose perk up. What kind of leverage could Poppy have over an FBI agent? “And it might be good for business to have a fed in our pocket.”
Caruso snorted. “That one isn’t about to sit in anyone’s pocket. The girl’s a firecracker waiting to be lit.”
Silence. Poppy fiddled with his cigar, relighting it, then took another swallow of bourbon. Caruso lounged in his chair, feet stretched out, crossed at the ankle, and watched the older man.
Finally Poppy spoke. He didn’t look at Caruso, instead stared into the bottom of his glass. “What do you want me to do?”
“Get rid of her. Now. Before we move the money.”
Goose tried to act casual, hide his excitement. They hadn’t moved the money to the casino yet. There was still time for him to find it.
Poppy nodded, set his empty glass aside. “Let me make a few calls. She won’t be a problem.”
“No. I don’t mean send her away.” Caruso glared at Poppy as if suspecting Poppy of treason. It was clear Poppy had deliberately misunderstood the national president’s order. “I mean take care of business. Today.”
Shit. Was Caruso nuts? He’d just ordered a hit on a federal agent.
Poppy’s face blanked. He nodded. “Of course.”
The front door burst open and Weasel stomped inside. “Son-of-a-bitch. I told you that kid was a liability.” He stopped short when he noticed Caruso. “Oh, sorry.”
Sorry? Hell, even Weasel was intimidated by Caruso. So far t
he national president hadn’t impressed Goose as anything other than a politician with his fake smiles and handshakes, but there must be something he was missing given the way the other Reapers deferred to the man. Caruso didn’t even have a TCB patch on his cut, although it was obvious he had no trouble giving the order to have someone killed. Typical manager. Didn’t get his hands dirty.
“Excuse me a moment,” Poppy said, rising.
“Anything I need to know about?” Caruso’s tone was relaxed but not his gaze. Goose had a feeling the national president knew everything going on with the Mountain Men and wasn’t too happy with Poppy’s leadership.
“No. Just one of our prospects slacking off.”
“Can’t have that. You should make an example out of him.” Caruso puffed on his cigar.
Poppy’s shoulders went rigid. “You’re right. We will.” Poppy joined Goose and Weasel, motioned them across the hall to the dining room. “What’d you find?” he asked Weasel.
“Bernie was a no-show so I went by his place. Didn’t make it but two steps into the lodge when I found part of a dead deer—”
“Inside the lodge?”
“Yeah. Parked there like it was a freaking all-you-can-eat buffet. It gets better. There was a leopard chewing on it. The kid stole our freaking leopard!”
Poppy waved that aside. “What about the girl? Any sign of her?”
“I ran out of there and was heading around to see what was in the other cabins, if he had our other animals, when I found her car. He has her. But you know that place. The way it’s spread out. They see us coming, they’d be off into the woods or they could get the drop on us.”
“Drop on us?” Goose said. “That doesn’t sound like Bernie.” Kid was so gentle-hearted that when he cleaned the clubhouse, he routinely scooped up spiders and ants and took them outside rather than killing them.
“I’m telling you, he’s got the girl up there with those animals. Kid’s gone off his rocker.”
“What do you want to do?” Poppy asked.
“I slashed the tires on the girl’s car and Bernie’s truck, so they’re not going anywhere anytime soon. Let me get a few of the boys together and we’ll go on our own hunting trip. We’ll nail them both and problem solved.”
They were talking about killing Bernie—one of their own—and the girl. For no good reason. At least none that made sense to Goose. But he knew better than to argue; it’d only make things worse. Maybe he could get away and call Wilson, have him go find Bernie and the girl, get them away. Warn Caitlyn as well. Wilson would be pissed, the money was his priority, but still—this was murder. Of two innocent kids and a fed. Goose couldn’t let that happen.
“Not quite all our problems,” Poppy said, glancing over his shoulder into the living room where Caruso waited. “Bernie and the girl can wait. The fed paid us another visit. Embarrassed us in front of Caruso.”
Weasel touched the knife on his belt. “Bitch. I’ll deal with her.”
Poppy shook his head. “Goose says she’s been searching the Cherokee archives online.”
Goose didn’t correct Poppy, tell him he suspected it was Tierney’s boyfriend doing the Internet searches. No reason to add one more innocent to the club’s hit list.
“Think Lena talked to her?”
“Or maybe Eli Hale somehow got a message to her. Either way, she needs to be dealt with, before she puts the pieces together.”
They were serious. No way. He hadn’t signed up for this.
They both stared at Goose, assessing him. “What do you say, Goose? Up to taking care of business?”
Despite the chill pouring through his veins, Goose forced his best poker face and nodded. “Whatever the club needs. How do you want it done?”
Poppy clapped him on the shoulder. “Knew you had it in you. Make it look like an accident. Last thing we need is the feds looking our way.”
“I’m on it.”
“I’m trusting you and Weasel to finish this. Today.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Caitlyn stared after her mother. Jessalyn always had to have the last word. On everything. But this was different. This felt … permanent.
Her mom had worked all her life to make sure Caitlyn was strong enough to face anything. Why couldn’t she trust her daughter now?
Caitlyn stood, not noticing the sun playing off the scudding clouds, reshaping the mountains before her eyes. Family first. Jessalyn’s creed. How was Caitlyn betraying that by staying loyal to a job she loved?
Confusion warred with resentment. She just wanted to do her job, damn it. But no one, not Jessalyn, not Paul, not the freaking FBI seemed to understand that.
Hell with them. She was going to find Lena Hale. Then she’d figure out the rest.
She left to find Paul waiting for her in the foyer in front of the elevators. “Figured you might be hungry.” He handed her a bagel turned into a sandwich, ham and a fried egg shoved between the two halves.
“Thanks.” She devoured the starchy concoction without really tasting it before something else could happen to keep her from eating. They took the elevator downstairs.
“Where to?” he asked.
She was grateful he didn’t mention Jessalyn or the fiasco known as family brunch. Appreciated that he didn’t ask questions. But hell if she was about to adopt him as a partner in this investigation. “You keep working on the research. I’ll go talk to the librarian at the archives. What was his name?”
He smiled. One thing about Paul, when he wanted to, he could charm a snake out of its skin. Even without resorting to his Barry White impression. “You mean the name of the guy waiting to talk to me? C’mon. I’ll drive.”
“I’m driving.” That way she could ditch him there among the dusty papers and books. Safest place for him and he’d love it. She’d figure out some special assignment to make him feel important, something esoteric that would take him all day to ferret out, even with the help of the librarian. While she’d hit the streets. Best way to let her do her job and keep him safe. Although Paul probably wouldn’t agree if she stopped to discuss it with him.
The archives were one of a row of tribal offices in a modern single-story whitewashed cement-block building with a metal roof. Other than Caitlyn’s Subaru the lot was empty.
Turned out the librarian wasn’t a librarian at all. He was an archivist. Name of Judas Bearmeat.
“You’ll find Bearmeats on the rolls as far back as you can go,” he said proudly as he escorted them past an empty reception area and behind a counter. “Including my namesake on the Hester Roll of 1884.”
They passed shelves filled with stacks of microfiche, well-tended ledgers, stacks of newspapers, and library card catalog files. In the rear of the building sat a small conference table stacked with books. The corner behind it had been turned into an office without a door or walls. A metal desk sat diagonally across the corner with horizontal file cabinets on either side, one with a tea set and coffeemaker on top, and two metal chairs in front of it, although Caitlyn doubted Bearmeat entertained company very often. He was late fifties, early sixties, with the rapid-fire speech of someone who spent way too much time alone and couldn’t shut up when he finally had the opportunity to talk with another human.
“What did Lena ask you to help her with?” Caitlyn cut to the chase while Bearmeat fiddled with coffee for Paul and tea for himself after she declined.
He took his time in answering. It was obvious he would have rathered it was Paul doing the talking—they spoke the same language. Academics. Fine with her. It would keep Paul entertained after she left.
“As I told Dr. Franklin”—Bearmeat nodded to Paul and handed him a cup of coffee in a porcelain cup with the Eastern Band crest on it—“Ms. Hale and I had any number of discussions. She was a delightful lady with a spirited mind. Would have made a fine researcher.”
“She’s not dead. Only missing,” she reminded him. Six minutes in his company and she was already irritated by his pedantic speech. “The
last time you spoke with her. What was the topic?”
“As you may know, Ms. Hale was researching Eastern Band rolls and trying to locate other freedmen families in addition to her own. She was curious about how recent court rulings on Oklahoma Cherokee freedmen tribal membership might impact our own freedmen descendants.”
“Right, I know. Law review, Supreme Court. But something got her interested in my father’s death. What does restoring her family and the other freedmen to Cherokee rolls have to do with my father?”
Bearmeat sat down with his tea and crossed his legs. He placed a napkin over one knee of his chinos before resting his cup and saucer on it. “And who might your father be?”
“Sean Tierney. He was a Balsam County deputy. Died twenty-six years ago.” Bearmeat didn’t need to know Sean had killed himself. Or why.
“Tierney. Oh yes, I remember. Lena wasn’t so much interested in his death as she was in the Freedmen Pact.”
“What’s a Freedmen Pact?” Caitlyn asked, about ready to turn Bearmeat into his namesake.
Paul answered. “You know about the Trail of Tears, right? In 1839, when most of the Cherokees were forced off their land and moved to Oklahoma. But a number stayed behind, and many returned to North Carolina. They couldn’t own land, but a white man adopted by the tribe, Will Thomas, began buying the land in the Qualla Boundary with his own money for his fellow tribe members. Then came the Civil War. Thomas gathered a company of Cherokees from this area to fight for the Confederacy.”
Caitlyn shook her head; dates and history had never been her strong suit. “So they fought on the losing side.”
“That’s not the point,” Bearmeat said. “Owning slaves was abolished by act of the Cherokee National Council in 1863. Then, a year after the Civil War ended, the former slaves, the freedmen, became citizens of the Cherokee Nation in accordance with a treaty negotiated between the Oklahoma Cherokees with the federal government.”
