Twenty-Four
Now
“Good morning!” Julian greeted, presenting Maggie a menu with a flourish the moment she settled into her booth. He handed one to Ava as well, beaming. “What can I get you lovely ladies to drink?”
“Morning,” Maggie responded, smiling in turn. “Orange juice would be great.”
“Me too,” Ava said.
“Two orange juices, right up. No coffee? Cappuccino?” He asked the last of Maggie, with an expectant look. She loved their cappuccino here, and he remembered the fact well.
“No, thanks.” She didn’t tell him she was off coffee because of the baby. She was here to lay the groundwork for some things, but Stella rushing out with flour-covered hands to touch her belly and exclaim wasn’t one of them.
“I’ll be right back,” he assured, and whisked away with a swish of apron and a whiff of fresh dough.
It was a cool, overcast day, the clouds pressing low, a handful of rain drops scattered across the café’s windows. It smelled like a real downpour was coming. A shift in the weather, things about to get colder, messier, less pleasant.
Fitting, Maggie thought.
Ava flipped idly through her menu. Despite their errand, Maggie figured she was enjoying a kid-free morning to linger over breakfast in peace. Relative peace.
“When he brings the drinks?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Maggie said. “To lay the first seeds.”
Around them, patrons sipped coffee and worked on Stella’s perfect, giant muffins, scents of cinnamon, chocolate, and pumpkin rich in the air. Conversations ebbed and spiked. They would have privacy. Though, if someone overheard, it wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
Ghost hadn’t tasked them with this, per se, but last night, when she asked if there was anything she and the other girls could do, he’d half-jokingly said, “Yeah, you can get the city on our side.”
“Okay,” she’d said.
He’d looked at her disbelievingly, but Maggie had been, and was, dead serious. She couldn’t put bullets in people – well, she could, technically, though it wasn’t her first choice of task – but she could put her social training to good use on his, and the club’s, and her family’s behalf.
Ava was pretending to read her menu and took a surreptitious glance around the dining room from beneath her lashes. Barely moving her mouth, she said, “There’s a group of old ladies over there shooting us curious looks.”
Maggie had spotted them when they walked in. “Mrs. Jackson. We get our hair cut at the same salon. She knows who I’m married to.”
Ava nodded. “Does she like you?”
“She likes everyone. Total sweetheart. And a total gossip.”
“Perfect.”
The other patrons, Maggie noted, consisted of mothers with children too young to be in school yet, and a handful of college students with laptops and giant cups of coffee.
Julian returned with two glasses of OJ balanced on a tray of bagels, all of which he set on their table. The bagels, Maggie knew, were complimentary.
“Here we are,” he said. “Now, what can I get you for breakfast?”
They were already drawing casual glances just thanks to Julian’s special attention. Who were they, others were wondering, and why did Julian care about them? It was an ideal setup to her delivery, the exact reason this was her first stop of the day.
After they’d ordered, before Julian walked off, Ava said, “Hey, Mom, do you think Julian and Stella would know anything about it?” Curious tilt to her head, practiced half-frown of wonder. On some level, Maggie should have been disturbed by how well her girl was taking to this whole manipulation thing, but she figured it was a skillset she’d need since she was married to a Lean Dog.
Julian’s interest was immediately piqued. “Know about what?”
“Oh nothing,” Maggie said. “Just some rumors about a new…” she dropped her voice a notch, a stage whisper, “club in town.” She leaned on the word and lifted her eyebrows so he’d catch her meaning.
His own brows shot up in response, worried crease sprouting between them. “Oh. Really? I haven’t heard anything.” And then, conspiratorially, “An outlaw club?”
Maggie noted several pairs of eyes trained their way. The city knew some things about the Lean Dogs, some of it true, most of it not. “Well, it’s just rumors,” she said, leaning toward Julian. He leaned in too; they were conspicuous at this point. “But what we’ve heard is that yes, it’s an outlaw club. They even came by Dartmoor.”
“No,” Julian gasped, scandalized.
“A whole bunch of them,” Maggie continued. “Cuts and all.”
“Ghost can’t be happy about that.”
And here was the clinch, all ready to be delivered. Julian had set her up better than if he’d been in on the scheme. “Well, he’s worried about Knoxville, you know,” she confided, and heard her voice get a little theatrical. She had a feeling if she looked across the table, Ava would be trying to hide a smile in her glass. “He and the boys really pride themselves on being Robin Hood and his Merry Men around here, looking after the city.” She lowered her voice yet again, but saw two of the students straining forward to hear, unabashed. “Doing the things law enforcement can’t and won’t.”
“Oh yeah,” Julian said, nodding. “The Dogs are such a huge part of Knoxville.”
“Exactly. And a new club, a bunch of outsiders trying to line their pockets – probably bringing drugs and porn and God knows what into town with them – doesn’t sit well with Ghost at all. He’s worried.”
“Of course,” Julian said.
“I’ve talked with Vince – Lieutenant Fielding with the PD – and he says they’re having a really hard time digging up good leads on these people. The force is obviously very concerned.”
“Obviously.”
“Dad’s trying to see if anyone around town has heard or seen anything,” Ava said. “He’s trying to get a hotline set up. Info he can pass along to the police.”
“Sometimes people are hesitant to talk to the cops,” Maggie said. “Afraid they’ll get in trouble. Guilt by association and the like.”
“People feel more comfortable coming to the Lean Dogs,” Ava said. “He wants to make sure they have every opportunity to play their part in keeping the city safe.”
Julian nodded, expression concerned and serious. “My,” he said. “We haven’t heard anything about this new club, but we’ll sure be on the lookout, don’t you worry.”
“That would be wonderful,” Maggie said, touching his arm for emphasis.
“Do you have a number for the hotline?” he asked. “We can hand it out to anyone who’s interested.”
Since they’d stopped at Kinko’s on the way over, she already had a stack of cards in her purse. She handed one over and he scanned it seriously before he slipped it in his apron pocket.
When he finally headed back to the kitchen, Maggie sent a wink across the table to Ava.
She winked back.
~*~
The trick to spreading gossip, Maggie had learned, was to drop it in the right ears. The big box chain stores were always a dead end. It was best to hit the local boutiques, the hardcore locals whose families had lived in Knoxville for five generations, who loved the city like a living thing. Craftsmen, artists, the heads of book and social clubs. By ten-forty-five that morning, they’d hit up all the most important gossips – the ones Maggie was on speaking terms with, anyway. Some had seemed more outwardly interested than others, but all had gotten that fever-gleam in their eyes: blood in the water, good story to tell.
“This time tomorrow,” Maggie said as they turned into Dartmoor, “everybody in the city’s gonna be on the lookout for the Dark Saints.”
“You’re scary good at this,” Ava said, head leaned back against the seat; Maggie could tell her eyes were closed behind the lenses of her shades; the sun falling through the car windows was warm, soothing.
“Lots of training, lots of practice,” she sai
d lightly, though her stomach twisted. Thinking too hard about the training part of it always brought up old cotillion memories she’d rather stay buried.
“Oh, hey, speaking of,” Ava said as they parked in front of the central office. Ava’s truck was next to them, and through the office windows, Maggie could see that Mercy was holding Millie in his lap, Cal coloring madly at the desk. “Grammie came by the house yesterday.”
The words were a bucket of cold water dumped over her head. She kept her voice neutral, she thought. “Really? What for?”
“To deliver the typical casual insults.” Ava turned her head to look at her, gaze unreadable behind her sunglasses. “And to check on you.” She bit her lip. “Actually, I, um, told her you were pregnant.”
All the breath gusted out of her lungs on one deep, shaky exhale. Here she was, a grown woman in her forties, married, co-head of a household. But the mention of telling secrets to her mother sent her spinning back to the old days. “How’d she take it?”
“She was shocked, I think. But she seemed, I dunno, maybe I imagined it, but contrite almost.”
“You definitely imagined it.”
Ava made a face. “She seemed genuinely worried. I told her she should get in touch with you…in the midst of overstepping my boundaries and giving her the business.”
Maggie snorted. “Good for you.”
They went into the office to find Cal in the middle of explaining his drawing – something sloppy and green that looked vaguely like an animal – to his daddy in rapid-fire detail. Mercy, to his credit, nodded along with interested “uh-huh”s and “yeah, I see”s.
“Mama!” Cal yelled when they entered, launching himself out of the chair, which spun and nearly dumped him.
“Whoa.” Mercy caught him with one giant hand and righted him. “Easy.”
Cal plastered himself to Ava’s legs and squeezed tight.
She smoothed a hand through his pale hair. “Did you guys have a fun morning?”
“Yes!” Cal cheered. “Daddy’s fun!”
“Very fun,” Ava agreed, shooting a smile Mercy’s way.
His returning smile was adoring, the sort of thing Maggie felt like an intruder witnessing – a happy intruder, though.
It took almost fifteen minutes to pack up the kids – and Cal’s art – and send them off with Ava for home. Maggie waved away any offers of help. Ava was proficient in the office, but Cal and Millie, not so much, and she had paperwork to catch up on. She still didn’t have everything back in its proper place after everything was trashed.
She frowned to herself at the thought, sinking down into her swivel chair.
“Sorry the kids made a mess,” Mercy said from the doorway, where he still lingered.
“No, it’s not that.” Her gaze caught on the phone, and the blinking light on the answering machine. “Lot of calls while I was gone?”
“Three or so. You alright?”
She shrugged. “Pregnancy.” Though the baby had nothing to do with the weird feeling in her chest.
Mercy seemed to know that, because he stayed when she pushed the playback button.
The first two messages were from customers wanting to make payments. But the third opened with a breath across the line. A suspicious pause. Then a female voice said, “Is this the hotline number? It says…anyway, if it is, I think I know something.” She left a number and then the line cut out.
Maggie grinned at Mercy. “Gossip never fails.”
~*~
“Damn, I’m tired of your face,” Ghost muttered as they swung off their bikes.
“This was your idea,” Roman said. “I don’t actually want jack shit to do with you.”
“Says the man who needs me to bail his ass out of trouble. Again.”
“You know,” Walsh said mildly, two paces behind them, “if I wanted to listen to this sort of thing, I’d go back to London and live with my brothers.”
“You’d go to Texas, you mean,” Ghost said. “Your nice brothers live in London.”
Walsh sighed. “You’ve got me there.”
“London?” Roman asked.
“You haven’t noticed the accent, dumbass?” Ghost asked.
“Children,” Walsh said, and they lapsed into silence.
They’d had to leave the bikes on the road, which didn’t sit well with Ghost. This was, as promised by the woman who’d left a message for Maggie, “way out here.” The address they’d been given led to a rusted tin mailbox and a gravel drive too deeply rutted to allow for safe riding. They’d walked about a quarter mile so far, and despite the coolness of the day, Ghost felt his t-shirt sticking to his back beneath his cut. Fitful sun was trying to peep through the clouds – clouds that were starting to stack up and look truly stormy the last half hour. Every few steps, he touched the gun on his hip, reassured by its weight, and that of the two .45s he carried under his cut in his shoulder holster. Total, he was packing four pieces if he counted the .22 in his boot, and three knives. He knew Walsh was typically strapped, and Roman had always been a resourceful son of a bitch; he didn’t think that had changed in the intervening years.
Finally, a house came into view. A small, square cottage, yellow with peeling black shutters. A dog of indeterminate breed was chained to the porch railing and started howling the moment he spotted them.
A moment later, a woman emerged, young but tired looking, wearing what look like her husband’s clothes, hair pulled back and secured with a bandana. “Hush,” she told the dog, and it flopped down onto the porch, growling. “You the Lean Dogs?” she called, expression uneasy.
“Yes, ma’am,” Walsh said, stepping forward. They’d decided he would be the best to do the talking; mild-mannered – seemingly – and women always loved his accent, the trace of London exotic in the woods of Tennessee. “We are. We understand you called about suspicious activity?”
Her gaze moved across the three of them, lingering on their faces. Cataloguing, Ghost thought with approval; he would want his own women to do the same.
“I did,” she said. “My son saw it. He…I almost called the police, but they don’t like to come out this far.”
Walsh gave her a bland smile. “We don’t mind the distance.”
She gave them each a careful once-over, then nodded to herself, mind made up. “Alright, follow me.” When she stepped down off the porch and started across the yard, Ghost saw the butt of a gun sticking out of her back pocket, half-hidden by the tail of her shirt.
God help the man who underestimated Southern women.
“My husband’s parents used to live out here,” she said over her shoulder as they walked, dry grass crunching underfoot. “They subdivided the land in their will – we got the house and the small barn. My brother-in-law got the big barn.”
The lawn sloped downward, sharply, into a copse of trees, and Ghost saw the big barn – a large metal-sided structure with a once-red roof, all of it rusted, though it had doubtless cost almost a hundred grand to install at some point. It was windowless, the roof littered with fallen pine needles.
“Bobby – that’s my son,” the woman continued, “saw some men down here last week. I thought he was just pulling my leg, but I came down here, and, well, you’ll see.”
A rude trail had been carved into the hill, braced with railroad ties, and it switched back several times before it deposited them at the base, in the cool shade of the trees. Wind hissed through the pines, dropping more needles, full of the iron scent of an approaching storm.
The woman took them to the front of the barn and its large roll-top door, and pointed at the ground. Tire tracks. ATVs, and lots of them. The dirt around the door was scuffed and littered with bootprints. Cigarette butts. Crumpled beer cans.
The woman put her hands on her hips and surveyed the scene. “My brother-in-law’s deployed, so this wasn’t him. Whoever was down here, and there were a lot of them, they weren’t invited.”
“Where does the driveway lead?” Ghost asked, spotting the needle-s
trewn track that snaked off through the woods.
“Main road.” She blew her bangs off her forehead with a breath. “Bobby said they were dressed all in black. Said he saw beards and wallet chains.” She gave them a questioning look.
“It wasn’t us,” Walsh said. “But if they were bikers, we think we know who they were.”
“It true there’s a new club moving into your turf? These Dark Saints I been hearing about?”
“You’ve heard about them?” Ghost asked.
She shrugged. “Heard one of y’all’s lady’s was asking around today. But I heard about it before. At Gordo’s.”
Ghost looked at Walsh and earned a shrug. Gordo’s was a bar on the opposite side of town from Bell Bar. It wasn’t anyplace they ever frequented.
Roman toed at a cigarette butt with a frown. “Kinda makes you wish you were a CSI, huh?”
“Nope,” Ghost said. Turning back to the woman: “So what’d they put in the barn? They didn’t come all the way out here to smoke.”
Her mouth pulled to the side in an unhappy way. “Lock’s busted, but I haven’t gone in yet.” The way she worried a snag in her shirt with her nails said she’d been too nervous to investigate by herself.
“Mind if we take a look?”
“Sure.” She walked over to the pedestrian door set into the front wall – sure enough, it had been kicked in – and pushed it open with her fingertips, hanging back. “There’s a light switch on your right,” she said, waving them through.
“Watch my six,” Ghost told Walsh, and stepped inside, flicked on the light. A dozen fluorescent tubes came on with a hiss, illuminating the giant space.
The inside was as he’d expected: a framework of electrical poles, open rafters, dank smell and gravel floor.
What he didn’t expect, or maybe he did, considering the tire tracks, was the stack of crates in the center of the space. They looked like the sort of thing you’d pack produce in, small enough to be strapped to the rear rack of a four-wheeler.
American Hellhound Page 30
