A low, appreciative whistle sounded in Franklin’s ear.
“Well done.”
“But I’m not going to unless you agree to let my mother go.” He edged his voice with steel.
A long silence followed.
He waited.
And waited.
He was beginning to worry he’d been too forceful and missed his opportunity, when the man said, “Fine.”
Fine. One terse, clipped word that would save his mother’s life.
“Thank you. Let me speak to her.”
“The information first, Franklin. And then you may talk to her. You have my word.”
He hesitated for a moment, and then the information that he’d seared into his brain spilled out in a rush of numbers, letters, and jumbled words.
“Stop,” the man demanded.
Franklin stopped.
“Now, slowly, begin again, please, and explain how you came to know all this.”
Franklin gulped and forced himself to speak calmly despite his racing pulse and pounding heart. “The lawyer placed a personal call just now. I’ve been monitoring her incoming and outgoing calls, just like you wanted, to see if there was anything you could use.”
“Very good. Go on.”
“She left a message at this number regarding divorce papers.”
“She is married? And they are estranged?”
“Apparently.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone. Franklin took a moment to feel sorry for whichever henchman had failed to uncover these basic vital statistics. He assumed both that there were many henchmen, and that they were maimed—or possibly killed—whenever they screwed up. This belief, combined with his constant concern and worry about his mother, had completely destroyed his ability to sleep and eat. But that was all about to end.
“And she is divorcing her husband?”
“No, it sounded more like he is divorcing her. She seemed upset and surprised.” Franklin scrolled through his memory to recall the message she’d left. “She asked him to call her. Said she loved him.”
“This is interesting. You’ve done well. Repeat the information now, and as I promised, you may talk to your mother.”
Franklin closed his eyes and sent up a silent prayer of gratitude before rattling off the information the man would need to do whatever it was he planned to do to Joseph C. Jackman. He regretted what might happen to him, but he had his own priorities.
He heard shuffling and murmured voices, then the man activated the speakerphone.
His mother’s soft voice was in his ear.
“Franklin?”
“Mom, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, honey.”
“No you’re not. He told me he broke your fingers.”
“Oh, that. It was nothing.” She scoffed.
In the background, Franklin could hear the man muttering darkly.
“Mom, don’t say that—don’t challenge him.”
His mother sighed. “It doesn’t matter. He’s going to do what he’s going to do.”
“It’s over. I got him what he wanted, and he’s going to let you go!”
She sighed softly. “Oh, honey, no he’s not.”
“He is,” he insisted. “We have a deal.”
His mother’s voice was gentle but insistent. “I don’t think this is a gentleman who honors his agreements. I think I’m going to die in this cabin. Just remember, I love you very much.”
He shook his head as if she could see him. “Don’t talk that way—”
“Playtime’s over, Junior,” the man’s deep voice said, replacing his mother’s refined one. “I have work to do. And so do you.”
“Wait. I’m done. You’re going to let my mother go. You said you would.”
The man laughed, an ugly, black laugh. “There’s been a change of plans.”
He was still laughing when he hung up on Franklin.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Joe told himself to delete the voicemail—or, at a minimum, stop playing it over and over. And yet, he couldn’t seem to help himself. He hit the “1” key again to replay it.
The sadness. The hesitation. And then the little hitch in her voice before she said she loved him.
Rufus whined up at him and pawed at his ears.
“Sorry, boy. I’ll stop.” He heard the catch in his own voice and cleared his throat.
He balled his hands into fists and then released them, reaching down to scratch the dog’s head absently.
He’d known serving Aroostine with the divorce papers would prompt her to contact him. He also knew the decent thing would have been to at least call her and warn her that he’d filed the complaint. But more than that, he knew that if he spoke to her, he’d lose his resolve. Hell, he’d been unable to pull the trigger on starting the process for weeks.
So, fueled by liquid courage after his night out with Brent, he’d scrawled his name above the signature line, shoved the papers into the envelope his attorney had helpfully provided, then stumbled along the iced-over path down to the mailbox at the end of the driveway and stuffed the envelope inside.
He’d slept past ten the next morning, and only woke, with a mouth full of cotton and a throbbing headache, when Rufus had become loudly insistent about his need to go outside.
As he shivered in his flannel shirt while Rufus watered the bushes, he suddenly remembered what he’d done. Regret flamed in his mind, and he raced to the mailbox to retrieve the papers.
It was too late. The little red flag was down, and when he pulled open the box, he found a fresh stack of catalogs and utility bills. The divorce complaint was gone, on its way to the Law Offices of J. Patrick Townsley, Esquire, who would serve it on Aroostine and file it with the court.
For a wild moment, he considered calling the lawyer and telling him he’d changed his mind. Then he told himself it was for the best. For him and Aroostine both.
And since that moment in his driveway, he’d steadfastly refused to think about what came next. Every time the thought of divorce popped into his mind, he’d pushed it away.
But now what came next was here, and it hit him in the gut like a cold, steel fist. He gasped and bent over, clutching his knees with his hands.
Rufus whimpered.
Joe tried to swallow, but he couldn’t. His chest was being squeezed by an unseen hand. For a long moment, he panicked, convinced he was having a heart attack, but the feeling passed as quickly as it had come.
Don’t fall apart, he ordered himself. He’d chosen this course, and now he had to stay it.
He put away his tools and cleared the wood scraps from his workbench methodically. He worked quickly and efficiently, falling into a rhythm. The familiar routine calmed him, and his heartbeat slowed to normal.
He had to keep busy, that’s all. As long as he didn’t allow himself to dwell on the wreckage of his marriage, he’d be just fine.
In fact, he decided, he knew exactly how to distract himself. He’d take Rufus back to the house and feed him his dinner, then head over to the Hole in the Wall for Two-fer Tuesday. Two beers for two bucks sounded like the prescription for what ailed him. And he’d leave his blasted cell phone at home, so he wouldn’t be tempted to make a late-night call that he’d regret.
Maybe, just maybe, he’d even strike up a conversation with that friendly barmaid. The redhead with freckles and a smile the size of Ohio.
He left a voicemail for Brent in case he wanted to meet him at the bar and whistled to let Rufus know it was time to go.
Jen checked her notes. This was the place. She’d gotten the assignment twenty minutes earlier and had sped to the address. Apparently, she’d beat the target to the location because she saw no sign of the guy or his vehicle.
She passed the time listening to played-out country songs on the ra
dio. Just as Shania started caterwauling about boots under a bed, the target drove past and slowed to make a right turn.
He parked a dusty American-made pickup in the lot behind the town’s bar, which appeared to live down to its name. It was every inch of a dive, from the windowless facade to the bent and weathered board stuck in the cement out front advertising two-for-one drafts.
The guy hopped from the truck’s cab and turned up the collar of his tan jacket before heading into the wind and trudging across the parking lot, which was nearly filled with dusty American-made pickup trucks—F-150s mainly. He was alone.
From her spot in front of the gas station across the street, Jen watched from the warmth of her own F-150 until he disappeared into the bar. Then she flipped down the visor above the dash and checked her makeup in the illuminated mirror.
She winced at the way the skin under her eyes was beginning to wrinkle and sag. The lines and the sallow color were unavoidable effects of working nights. It aged a girl.
A quick coat of lip gloss and a hair fluffing later, she zipped up her leather jacket and killed the engine.
The Silk Road gig had specified a low-key approach, nothing overtly sexy. She was glad she’d paid attention to the details. This joint looked like a tight jeans and clingy sweater kind of place. Her usual club attire of low-cut dresses and sparkly tank tops would have stuck out.
Whatever.
The atmosphere might be low-rent, but the job promised to pay top dollar. If she pulled this off, she’d have enough bitcoins in her account that she wouldn’t have to work the truck stop parking lot for, like, the rest of the year. She might even be able to afford some pricey skin cream to take care of those wrinkles.
And, in a nice change of pace, she wouldn’t even have to screw this loser. Just deliver him to the agreed-upon location. Although, truth be told, he wasn’t hard on the eyes. He looked like he worked out, and his jeans hugged his butt nicely. Maybe she’d do a little freelancing before she handed him over—it might be nice to be with someone whose gut didn’t sag over his pants.
She pulled open her purse to make sure the bottle of roofies was in easy reach and patted the vial of pills for luck. She would wait long enough for the guy to get himself seated and settled in with a drink, then she’d head across the highway and work her magic.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
To Joe’s disappointment, the bubbly redhead wasn’t working. Instead, when he pushed the steel door inward, he was greeted by Mikey’s ugly mug.
“Joe.” The bartender nodded and turned back to the hockey action on the wall-mounted television.
Joe settled onto a stool and looked around the narrow, dimly-lit bar. It was already crowded with bargain-hunting couples and buddies taking advantage of the two-for-one drink deal.
He felt conspicuous, alone in a sea of pairs.
The announcers threw it to commercial, and Mikey walked over to take Joe’s order.
“Two lagers?”
He almost said yes but considered a moment and said, “Nah. Two stouts.” There was no need to specify a brand—only Yuengling qualified for the two-for-one deal. Not that anyone in town drank anything else anyway. He didn’t know why the place bothered to stock other labels.
An eyebrow crawled up Mikey’s face.
“Thought Aroostine didn’t like you drinking during the week.”
Aroostine didn’t like him drinking, period. And she hated the Hole in the Wall. But he had no intention of getting into a discussion about Aroostine’s views with Mikey.
“Lucky the second one’s not for her then, huh?”
Mikey chuckled and flicked his bar rag over his shoulder as he walked away.
Joe didn’t want to bad-mouth his wife, especially because it would just be a matter of time before the entire town of Walnut Bottom knew about the divorce. But, all the same, he figured that he no longer needed to honor her views about drinking and slumming it in a place like this.
Not that he could really fault her. She’d come by her opinions the hard way. The whole reason she’d been adopted out of her tribe was that her parents had literally drunk themselves to death. Her grandfather, who’d pretty much raised her anyway, had made arrangements for a childless couple he knew from town to take care of her after he died. The old man had taken a keen look at the way the culture was disintegrating and decided his granddaughter would be better off away from her heritage.
He’d been right, too, Joe mused, as he hoisted the only slightly dirty mug to his lips. The Higginses had given Aroostine a stable home, support, and a good start in life. She’d grown up surrounded by love. They’d adopted her when she was seven, and if you ran into them around town, they’d still just about burst with pride to tell you how successful and smart she was.
Joe loved her ambition, he really did. But she was just so serious and driven, always moving forward, never slowing down. He didn’t want to live in the fast lane, especially not cooped up like a chicken in some concrete pen.
He drained the glass and returned it to the bar with a dull thud.
The whole point was not to think about his soon-to-be ex-wife. Or her glossy curtain of hair. Her soft lips. Her silvery laugh.
“Mikey. Let’s have the other one now.” He gestured toward the empty mug and hoped the barkeep wouldn’t notice the thick emotion in his voice.
A blast of cold air hit the back of his neck as the steel door to the bar opened inward. He didn’t turn to greet the newcomer because he was studiously avoiding looking to his right, where Kirk Galeton was regaling the checkout girl from the Stop-n-Shop with tales of his quarterbacking prowess. Having graduated high school with Kirk, Joe was fairly certain Kirk had thrown his last touchdown pass before his rapt listener had graduated from diapers, but who was he to judge?
The arrival of the second beer coincided with that of a stranger. A curvy bottle-blonde, who squeezed herself in between Joe’s stool and Kirk’s and elbowed her way forward.
She paid no attention to either of them. Kirk threw her a dirty look but used the encroachment as a chance to sidle closer to the checkout girl, who giggled, revealing metal braces.
Didn’t Mikey even pretend to card anymore?
The woman drummed her long, painted fingernails on the bar.
Mikey pulled himself away from the hockey game.
“What’ll it be?” he asked.
“I’ll have a Yuengling.”
Mikey met Joe’s eyes and smirked.
“Good choice, darling. They’re two for the price of one tonight, but what kind?”
She flushed. “Oh. Well, I just need one. Um . . .” She glanced over at Joe’s glass, which somehow was already half-empty. “Give me what he’s having. And, uh, why don’t you give him my second one?”
Mikey gave her a close look but didn’t say anything. When he’d left to get her drinks, Joe turned toward the woman.
“You didn’t need to do that.”
She took off her jacket and folded it over her arm, then leaned in toward him. He caught a glimpse of black lace and the swell of a breast under her tight purple sweater.
“I wanted to. I really don’t need two—I’m driving. And you look like you could use another one.”
“I do?”
“You do.” She gestured toward his stool. “Mind if I hang my jacket over your seat?”
He jumped up. “I’m so sorry, where are my manners? Here, you sit.”
“No, I’m fine. Really.” She smiled.
“Please, I insist. After all, you bought me a drink. It’s the least I can do.”
He swept his arm toward the seat, and she ducked her head in thanks and slipped onto it in a fluid motion, made all the more impressive by her painted-on jeans and stiletto boots.
Once she was perched on the stool, she leaned toward him again, with another flash of skin and lace.
; “Technically, I didn’t buy you a drink. It’s free, remember?”
A real smile spread across his face. The simple banter with a pretty girl was lifting his spirits. He suddenly felt much more charitable toward Kirk’s penchant for reliving the glory days with every single female he could corner.
“I guess that’s right. I’m Joe.” He stuck out a hand.
She giggled and offered him her fingertips in return. Her hand was soft and warm. Her skin smelled vaguely like fruit, like the stuff they sold at the Bath & Body Works at the mall over past Firetown.
“Jen,” she said.
“Nice to meet you, Jen.”
“You too, Joe.”
“You aren’t from around here, are you?”
She shook her head, and her hair bounced off her shoulders. “No,” she began, but stopped when Mikey arrived with the drinks.
She hefted the mug in her hand and said, “To Two-fer Tuesday.”
He laughed and clinked glasses with her.
And they began to talk. It was easy and light, with none of the awkward pauses or stiff pick-up lines that usually attended a conversation between a strange man and woman in a bar, at least in his experience.
She seemed interested in hearing all about his furniture business, Rufus, even the defunct blues band he and Brent had started right out of college. She asked him a ton of questions and laughed whenever he said something mildly funny.
He managed not to mention Aroostine at all. And while he hadn’t been attracted to Jen, so much as glad to have someone to talk to who didn’t have a tail to wag, somewhere around his fifth beer, he felt something shift between them.
He thought she must have felt it, too, because she ducked her head and fiddled around with her shoulder bag—a nervous tic she’d been exhibiting off and on all night.
He smiled at her and tried to think of a way to tell her how he felt without sounding sleazy. It turned out he didn’t need to form the words.
She put a warm hand on his forearm and leaned in close. Her breath tickled his neck, and she murmured, “What do you say we get out of here and go someplace more private?”
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