Lone Star (Dartmoor Book 7)

by Lauren Gilley

  “That’ll take forever,” Candy said, fake-cheerful. He planted his hands on his hips and squared off from the agent. “Let’s say it’s the same guy. When were those other killings: a month ago? You’ve gotta have more intel than you’re cluing me into.”

  Cantrell stared at him, squinting against the sun.

  “If you want my help, then I want yours. Tell me something useful.”

  “And what will you do with that information?”

  “If you’re asking me to lend a hand, you’re not really in a position to ask that kind of question, are you?”

  After a long moment, Cantrell sighed, shoulders slumping. “There were other killings, besides Nevada. In Phoenix. The vics weren’t affiliated with any kind of club or gang, not that we’ve found yet. None of them were related, or knew each other, from what we could tell. But.” His voice lowered, though there wasn’t another soul who wasn’t a Lean Dog for miles. “They were drugged.”

  “Makes sense,” Candy said. “If you’re gonna move a guy, tie him up, then kill him, he’d need to either be willing, or doped up out of his mind. And you said y’all found ketamine in the vics in Nevada.”

  “We did. But in Arizona…We haven’t been able to pin down what it is, exactly.”

  Candy lifted his brows. “It’s been tested?”

  “Of course.” Cantrell made a face. “But it’s none of the usual stuff: not Special K, or morphine, or fentanyl, or heroin. We’ve run it against every kind of sedative we’ve got in the database, and so far, no match.”

  “So it’s something new. Designer, maybe.”

  “I’ve got someone who thinks she can figure it out, but it might take some time.”

  “Hm.” Candy’s mental gears were already spinning. “Right. Well.” He took a step back. “If you figure out what it is–”

  “Wait.” Cantrell ’s gaze sharpened. “What are you planning?”

  Candy grinned. “You don’t wanna know. If I find out something useful, I’ll give you a call.”

  He walked back to the clubhouse with Cantrell frowning after him.

  ~*~

  “He wasn’t bad. For a cop,” Jenny said, shrugging. It was lunch time, and they were at a table in the common room, empty of all the boys, save the new prospect, a stocky guy in his twenties the guys had dubbed Nickel for reasons Michelle had been too tired and busy to ask about. “Kinda had that sad bachelor thing going on.” She snorted. “Looked like he rolled outta bed and pulled a jacket on over his PJs.”

  “Like us,” Michelle said, with a snort of her own, dragging the tines of her fork through her salad.

  “We looked a helluva lot better than him, let me tell you.”

  Darla stabbed at lettuce with short, agitated movements, mouth drawn in a tight line. “I don’t like that he was in here. What if he planted a bug?”

  “He didn’t,” Jenny said, firmly. But her gaze lifted and swept across the common room, anyway. “He wasn’t that slick, and he was watched the whole time.”

  “Don’t care: I still don’t like it,” Darla said, spearing a tomato forcefully.

  Michelle didn’t either, but she was trying not to sound paranoid.

  Candy and Jinx had headed off to look into something, and the others had drifted away in ones and twos: to make a run with the wrecker, to go shake metaphorical trees and see if any information fell out of them.

  The clubhouse seemed too quiet with just the three of them – four of them, if you counted Nickel. The kids counted, she supposed. TJ was down for his nap, and Jack, kept out of preschool for the day after their traumatic morning. But kids, Michelle felt a bit guilty for having learned, felt like soft spots in these situations. Like vulnerable points. It wasn’t just about watching her own back anymore, but about protecting her child: she didn’t resent that for a second, but she felt less capable than she had as a single girl with a knife and a gun.

  “…Michelle?”

  She started, glancing up from her plate. “I’m sorry?”

  Darla and Jenny both studied her with furrowed brows.

  It was Darla who’d spoken. “I asked if anything weird’s happened at the bar lately. Anything to worry about?”

  Michelle knew she was asking if there had been any creepy customers. Any guys acting suspicious, hitting on women who didn’t want their attentions; anyone who’d needed bouncing, who was lingering out back, being generally suspicious. But the thing that popped into her head, and made its way out of her mouth was: “Pacer’s sister came by last night.”

  “Oh,” both women said at once.

  Jenny set her fork down with a quiet click that seemed deafening in the suddenly-silent room. Nickel had stopped sweeping, and hastily resumed, head ducked, when Michelle glanced his way. “So you met Melanie,” Jenny said, without inflection, face carefully blank.

  Like she wasn’t sure how Michelle would react. Like she was trying not to upset her, or give away her own feelings on the matter.

  It shouldn’t have, but that small gesture annoyed Michelle. “Yes,” she said crisply. “I met her. Are the two of you friends?”

  Jenny eased back in her chair a fraction; maybe Michelle had been a little too crisp. “No. We’re not. You’ve never seen her here before, have you?”

  Touché.

  “We used to hang out some,” Jenny said, softening a little. “Back in the day, when Pacer was still trying to prospect. That’s how she and Candy met. She was always too…” She frowned. “Bubbly for me. But in a really aggressive way, you know? You met her. She takes that Southern friendliness thing and turns it up to eleven – and feeds it speed or something. I dunno. She’s alright.

  “But,” she added, head tilting to an emphatic angle. “She and Candy were awful together. Just terrible. It was like they didn’t even like spending time with each other. And she was always after him about the club. Total mismatch.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re just trying to make me feel better?”

  Jenny shrugged and picked her fork up again. “What’s there to feel bad about? They broke up ages ago, and he’s married to you. Because you guys are great together.” She gestured with her fork, a stabbing motion through the air between them.

  Michelle snorted.

  “What did she want, anyway?” Jenny asked, resuming her lunch.

  Michelle looked down at her salad – a beautiful creation of Darla’s, with grilled chicken, mandarin oranges, sugared pecans, blue cheese, and homemade dressing – and decided eating any more would be unwise, given the way her stomach was flipping. “She said she was worried about Pacer. That he was more upset than she’d ever seen him.” She pushed her plate away for good measure, and Darla sent her a sympathetic look. “She wanted to ask Candy if he knew anything yet.”

  “She couldn’t pick up a phone?” Jenny asked, shaking her head.

  Michelle’s stomach tightened another fraction. “I guess she didn’t have his number.”

  Jenny and Darla traded a look.

  “What?”

  Darla stood, suddenly, and took Michelle’s plate. “Here, hon, let me make you some toast for your tummy.”

  “I had toast for breakfast,” she said, a little numb. To Jenny, she repeated, “What?”

  “Nothing,” Jenny said, with a look that tried very forcefully to assure her that everything was alright.

  Again, Michelle felt that tug of impulse, that urge to call Fox.

  Again, she pushed it down.

  Fourteen

  Candy might have been president these days – but that was Amarillo president. Ghost still had final say-so over certain business practices, more unrelenting than ever, now that the club had a wealthy, connected dealer at the helm of their drug dispensary business. About a year ago, each chapter of the club had cleaned house. Any dealer who used his own product, who talked too much, who treated it anything less than the business that it was, had been purged. The result was a fleet of dealers who blended well with local crowds; regular guys on the outs
ide, polite, responsible, clean and inconspicuous. Sales numbers were up, and customers were satisfied.

  But the purge had left some really nefarious characters really pissed with the Dogs. No wars had broken out – most of the jilted dealers were too high or drunk to do anything but curse them to perdition. But Candy had been waiting, breath held, for a blow-up from someone.

  He really hoped this nasty business with the killings wasn’t just such a thing.

  They rolled their bikes up to the chain-link gates of Patty Sutherland’s “auto-shop,” a more generous title than the place deserved. Set well back off the road, beneath the shade of scrubby, drought-stunted mesquite trees, the “shop” was more of a shack, pieced together from a dozen different varieties of siding, with large swaths of tarpaper showing through. House on one side, complete with falling-off shutters and sagging porch, and a long, three-stall carport on the other. He had a lift that didn’t work, and at least a dozen rusting, disorganized tool chests, wrenches and bolts and myriad parts spilling out onto the dirt floor. The yard was crammed with the stripped corpses of every kind of car; one old Mustang had been in a fire, a ruined black husk, and Candy had never understood what could possibly be salvaged from it.

  Patty had dealt pot and a little coke for them up until seven months ago.

  The gates were secured with a length of heavy chain, glittering silver in the sun, the cleanest thing on the property, a fat new Master lock holding it in place.

  Candy killed the engine and swung off his bike. Took off his helmet and went to present his face to the camera that peered down at them with vulture-like judgement. “Pat,” he said into the lens, raking a hand through his mashed-down hair. “It’s us. We just wanna talk.”

  The yard was totally still, save a few flies droning in a sun patch. A crow croaked from one of the mesquite trees; a soft rustling of feathers against leaves.

  Behind him, Jinx observed, “His car’s here.”

  It was: the old white-walled Buick sat nosed up to the porch, just enough room around it for a three-point turn to get pointed back toward the gates.

  “Doesn’t want to see you, though.”

  Candy glanced back over his shoulder. Jinx sat forward, feet braced flat on the ground, forearms leaned on his handlebars. His eyes were shielded by his sunglasses, but the rest of his face was smoothly impassive. Candy knew that look well: his best friend’s detached sort of judgement.

  “Yeah,” Candy said, dryly, turning back to the camera. “I figured that one out. Patty,” he said, louder, into the lens. “You can hate me all you want, but.” He fished into his back pocket and came out with a money clip that he waved slowly back and forth in front of the camera. “I’ve got some questions, and some cash if you feel like answering them.”

  Jinx snorted.

  A moment later, the screen door on the front of the house eked open, and Patty came slouching out.

  Patty’s problem, when he’d dealt for the club, was that he didn’t keep track of the numbers. He was a pothead, plain and simple, high seventy-five percent of the time. It turned him mellow, and careless, and accommodating, and he forgot to keep up with his ledgers; forgot to measure out what he sold to customers; forget to collect money at all, sometimes. Candy had always felt sorry for him – he had a whole tragic backstory that would have softened the hardest of hearts. But he was like a slow leak in a pipe: the drips and drabs individually didn’t seem to make much difference, but over a period of years, you had a big stain on your hands, and a mess to clean up.

  He didn’t look high now, though, as he approached the gate. His knobby frame was half-bent at the waist, his head on a swivel, gaze sweeping back and forth, like he was looking to see if anyone lurked in the scrub growth on either side of the driveway. When he finally reached the fence, and met Candy’s gaze, his own was sharp, and mistrustful, his mouth a compressed line of displeasure.

  “Hey, Patty,” Candy said, easily.

  Patty said, “What do you want?” in a voice totally unlike himself.

  Candy only just masked his surprise. “You doin’ alright?”

  “What do you want?” Patty repeated, brows lowering, and executed another furtive scan of the immediate area.

  All the alarm bells were clanging in the back of Candy’s mind. He peeled a handful of twenties off the money clip and held them up to the chain link. “If you’re nervous about something, we can go talk inside?”

  Patty’s gaze narrowed in on the cash for a few long beats, then his hand darted out, pale and flighty as a startled bird, and snatched it up. He stuffed it in one grubby jeans pocket and said, “Whatever you gotta say, say it out here.”

  Jinx’s boot soles scuffed softly on the dirt of the driveway as he swung off the bike and took a few steps toward them. “Who’s out there?” he asked, voice tight, and a glance proved that he was surveying their surroundings, searching for boogeymen. “Who’s watching you, Pat?”

  Patty didn’t answer. He glared at Candy and said, “What do you want?” Almost desperate.

  Candy couldn’t ever remember seeing Patty like this before: scared.

  Before a few days ago, he hadn’t ever seen Pacer scared, either.

  “Pat – Patty.” He’d had his list of questions written out in his head, all ready to chat and meander his way toward the harder stuff. Get Patty off his guard until he could steer the conversation into a more serious direction. But now, he felt like he was talking to a small animal caught in a trap; the moment he could gnaw his leg free, he’d be gone. So when he had eye contact, Candy said, low and serious, “Someone’s got you spooked.”

  Patty’s eyes went wide, wild and white-rimmed, and he took a step back.

  “Wait,” Candy hissed. “Tell me who it is, and we can protect you.” Another step. “Patty, I know he’s killing people. The vics are drugged, and he’s tying them out with–”

  Patty whirled and fled toward the house.

  “Patty!” Candy called after him.

  Shoes slapped up the porch steps, and then the screen door crashed shut.

  The crow in the tree let out a disgruntled squawk and took flight, branch bowing with the force of his leap to the air.

  Candy stood there a moment, skin prickling – not with fear, but with an unpleasant sort of adrenaline rush. The surge of awareness that things might – might – be much thornier and spookier than he’d originally thought.

  He turned, and Jinx was regarding him with arms folded, jaw firmer now, his judgement less blank, and more pointed. “Don’t say it,” Candy said.

  Jinx shrugged. But, spoken or not, the judgement was there, settling like an unwelcome weight across Candy’s shoulders.

  Fifteen

  “It’s about us,” Candy said on the other end of the line, and Michelle paused on her way around her car. TJ was already buckled into his seat in the back, and she was headed for the driver door. She rested a hand on the edge of the trunk as a fresh wave of nausea washed through her.

  “Us.”

  “About the club,” he amended. He sighed. “At least, I think. We went to see Patty.”

  She made a face even though he couldn’t see. She’d met Patty once, when he came by the club. He’d smelled like he used weed for deodorant.

  “Someone’s got him scared sober. Wouldn’t even talk to us. Whatever’s happening, it’s organized. Someone’s making an effort.”

  “Someone’s trying to break onto the scene,” she said, grimly, belly tightening further. It was inevitable: when a hierarchy existed, people would step up to challenge it. She’d hoped – no matter how sick it made her – that these killings were the work of a deranged madman. Something finite and freakish that could be handled, over and done with. But Jenny had seen two men fleeing her yard this morning. And if Lean Dogs’ friends and former dealers were being targeted…

  “Any ID on the bodies at Colin and Jenny’s?” she asked. Candy, nor Colin, nor Blue had recognized him.

  “Yeah, Cantrell called. Guy nam
ed Dalton. He’d been busted a few times for possession. No ID on the other. We’re headed over to Pacer’s now, gonna see if he ever heard of him.”

  “Okay.”

  “You still at home?”

  “Just leaving. It’s inventory day at the bar.”

  “Chelle.” His voice hardened.

  She bristled immediately. “Don’t Chelle me. Am I supposed to just sit at home, knitting blankets and worrying about you?”

  He snorted at the idea, but his voice was still firm when he spoke. “Nobody’s going anywhere alone until we get this handled. I’m putting my foot down on that.”

  Growing up in the club, she’d learned two things:

  One: when a Lean Dog said you weren’t going somewhere alone, you could do all the arguing you wanted, but somebody was going to tail you like a shadow, so there was no sense fighting about it.

  Two: when a Lean Dog said you weren’t going somewhere alone…their caution was usually warranted.

  A shiver moved down her back, and across her skin, goosebumps lifting beneath her jacket sleeves. “Who do you want me to take?” she asked. “I have to be at the bar.”

  He sighed. “Can you wait five minutes? I’m sending Jinx your way.”

  The shiver came again. She’d expected to take Nickel, or maybe Pup. The twins, who could be useful, if given direction. But Jinx meant serious business. Jinx meant this wasn’t just a threat, but a Threat.

  Dead bodies proved that, but she’d grown more immune to death than was healthy.

  She thought of Fox, yet again. He could have this handled in a matter of days. Maybe even hours.

  “I can wait,” she said. “But what about you? Then you’ll be alone.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  There was no wood handy, so she knocked lightly on her own head. “Don’t let those be your famous last words,” she admonished.

  “I won’t.”

  When she hung up, she stared at her phone screen a moment, debating, thumb hovering over her contacts icon. She was hormonal, she reasoned; anxious, tired, fuzzy-headed. Candy was a grown-ass man, and plenty capable. The club was bigger and stronger than ever before. Things would be fine.