Bad Boy Heroes Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  He revised his assessment, though, when Carl Donovan strode into the cellblock with Angus Anderson, the night cop. Donovan always played King Shit and treated everybody else like peasants.

  Annie edged away, and Joe said, “Go, honey, now.” She scurried out.

  Donovan’s face was mottled red. “Daniel, what’s this all about?”

  Danny stood, a cool, defiant gleam in his eyes. “I didn’t do nothin’.”

  Donovan took a bead on Linc and Joe. “It’s them again. They’ve corrupted you. First the gang. Then racing.”

  Linc heard a moan from the next cell. Beth. The Donovans hated her with a vengeance.

  “What happened, young man?”

  Facing his father cockily, Danny said no more. Donovan tried staring him down, but it didn’t work. So he went for his son’s Achilles’ heel. Striding over to the next cell, he addressed Beth. “I hope you’re proud of yourself. Now you’ve turned my son into a criminal, not just a juvenile delinquent.”

  “I…I’m sorry, Mr. Donovan.”

  “Don’t apologize to the asshole,” Margo spat out.

  Danny had gripped the bars. “Dad, don’t. Leave her alone.”

  “You’re pathetic.” Donovan swept them all with a mocking glare. “You’re hoodlums, all of you. You should be shipped off to some desert island.”

  So the town doesn’t have to deal with us. Linc knew the drill.

  “Well, I’ve tolerated this long enough. I’ve put the wheels in motion, Daniel, to get you out of this and away from them.” He stood before his son again. “This time, you’re not staying in town. We’re sending you to that prep school in Vermont. Maybe you’ll forget all your glory dreams about racing.” He glanced toward Beth. “And about them.”

  Beth gasped. Margo swore. Donovan stood back while Angus unlocked the door and Danny exited the cell. Donovan turned on his heel and stalked out, expecting his son to follow.

  Instead, Danny rushed over to the other cell. “Bethy, they can’t do this. They can’t keep us apart.”

  Beth started to cry. Danny talked quietly with her.

  From the office, they heard an angry growl. “Daniel? Now!”

  After a few more murmured words to Beth, Danny left.

  The Donovans weren’t gone five minutes when Virginia Morelli marched in with two of the Fearsome Fanatics, as he and Margo had dubbed the members of her religious commune, Holy Waters. “Mary Margaret Morelli, shame on you.” Her mother stood before the cells, tall, bulky, with frizzy hair and glazed eyes. Linc crossed to the bars so he could see and hear more.

  Margo said nothing. For all her piss and vigor, her mother could shut her up with a stare.

  “The good Lord is crying, I’ll tell you. Right, Sister Susan?”

  “Right, Sister Virginia.” Her companion was equally as hefty and dressed in the same drab green dress which was the garb of the whole fucking commune.

  Virginia Morelli took a step toward the bars. “And what’s that you have on?”

  No answer.

  “The devil’s clothes.” Margo must still be wearing her leather jacket. “Hand it over to me.”

  There was a rustling, then Linc watched her cherished coat drop into the hands of her crazed mother. Virginia tossed it off to her cohort. “Burn it, Sister Susan.”

  Angus came back in. Virginia faced him. “Unlock her. Holy Waters posted bail and assumes responsibility for this sinner.”

  “Well, the juvy people might have something to say about what she done,” Angus murmured. “But you can take her now.”

  The jangle of keys. The scrape of steel. Margo stepped out into Linc’s vision. Her shoulders seemed slight in the T-shirt, and every single one of her pretty features were tight. “On your knees, sinner,” Virginia Morelli said. “On your knees in front of your friends.”

  Margo snagged Linc’s gaze. He lurched into the bars, ready to tear them apart.

  Joe came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Easy, buddy. You know you’ll only make it worse if good old Mama notices you.”

  “On your knees, I said.”

  With Sister Susan and Sister Teresa each pressing on a slender shoulder, Margo sank to the floor.

  “Ask God’s forgiveness.”

  Margo raised her chin but said nothing.

  “Ask his forgiveness.”

  Still, nothing.

  A loud crack—flesh against flesh. Margo swayed backward like a small sapling blasted by February wind, but kept her balance.

  Virginia stepped away. Sister Susan took her place. Then Sister Teresa. Smack. Smack. Still Margo was silent, but angry red welts were already forming on her face.

  Angus intervened. “That’s enough.”

  “Don’t worry, Sister Virginia,” one of the others said, “we’ll take her home and discipline her properly.”

  “The hell you will.” Linc’s hands curled around cold, unyielding steel. He screamed at Angus, “Do something about this!”

  Angus shook his head. “Should’ve thought about that before you tried to pull off a felony, Grayson.”

  Like a vulture sensing meat, Virginia Morelli strode up to Linc. There was a wildness in her eyes that made him shrink back. “You will never have her.”

  “Oh, yes I will. I’m going to take her away from you, far away from this town, and we’re never coming back.”

  The words echoed ominously as the three “sisters” literally dragged Margo out of the jail. Rage, pure and simple, coursed through Linc, and he pounded the bars till his hands started to bleed.

  Joe tried to soothe him. “There’s nothing you can do, buddy. Nothing any of us can do.” His tone was full of despair; they’d had a shit load of conversations about the future. Whereas Linc and Margo were bound and determined to escape the town, Joe saw himself literally rotting here. What made it worse was that his friend was the smartest guy Linc knew, though everybody only saw the hoodlum.

  Beth was the one to knock sense into Linc. “Please, Linc, we’re in real trouble.”

  And then, as if summoned by the words real trouble, Joe Murphy Senior stumbled into the jail. Crossing to Angus, he grabbed the keys, unlocked the cell door, and stepped inside. A cloud of stale whiskey and cigarettes accompanied him. Joe straightened, and for the first time, Linc spotted a glimmer of hope on his face. “You getting me out, Pa?”

  “Like hell.” The man raised his fist and rammed it into Joe’s jaw. Joe staggered backward and hit the cot, then the wall, then he went down. Murphy walked out of the cell, weaving, and threw the keys to Angus. “Let him rot in here for all I care. Don’t let none of those do-gooders get him out. Ya hear?”

  Even Angus looked disgusted. Murphy left, and Linc looked at Joe. His friend’s lip was split and his eyes were murderous. Linc bent down, and Joe said, “Don’t.” He seemed embarrassed. “I’m all right.”

  Linc had never heard more false words.

  *

  MID–AFTERNOON, LINC and Beth and Joe were still behind bars when they heard voices in the office again. Had Linc’s grandparents finally come for them? Instead, Tony Scarpino, The Downtown Diner owner, shuffled in. Linc had seen the guy in the diner, and around town. Middle aged, with no kids, he was small and wiry and had a quick smile for everybody. Guilt, thick and ugly, assaulted Linc. He wished he could do all the bad things he routinely did and not feel so bummed about it.

  “So,” Scarpino said, coming right up to Linc. “I understand you’re the leader of this little excursion.”

  “Yeah, I am.” Bravado fell easily from his lips.

  “Got your sister involved, too, huh?”

  That stole his thunder. Linc’s shoulders sagged.

  “The town don’t do much for you guys.” Scarpino threw a disgusted look at Angus. “Kids need help staying on the straight and narrow.”

  Linc wanted to say they didn’t need the town…but they did; he kept seeing Margo slapped up by the commune people and Joe’s father using him as a punching bag. Somebody shou
ld do something about that. If Linc was in charge, he’d help kids like him.

  “Your parents died a bit ago, didn’t they, Linc?”

  Linc nodded.

  Scarpino studied him. “Them grandparents of yours? Where are they?”

  “Probably napping.”

  “Nobody called them?”

  “Yeah, I did,” Angus put in. “Said they didn’t feel good enough to come down here this morning.”

  Sighing, Scarpino shook his head, a wealth of meaning in the gesture. “I got me a proposition, Linc. Listen up. I’m gonna get you out of here. And you’re gonna make amends. You’re gonna work at my diner, report to me and keep your nose clean. If you do, I won’t press charges for breaking and entering. You didn’t get no money, anyway.”

  “Go to hell,” Linc said, unable, unwilling, to accept charity.

  Then he heard Beth start to cry. Aw, shit. “Please, Linc, let’s do this. I’m really scared.”

  Linc expelled a weary breath. His tough-guy instincts warred with his brotherly concern. And, to be honest, he was wrecked most of the time, being responsible for everything. Sometimes, he wished an adult would take him in hand. He thought about his girl; if he did this stupid stuff with Scarpino, he’d be able to get Margo out of town quicker. He had another year of school left, she had two. If they could just finish…

  He heard a rustle behind him. Joe was restless on the cot. Linc said, “Murphy, too?”

  Scarpino shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

  “No can do.” Angus sounded sorry. “His father said nobody’s to bail him out for a while. Legal guardians have say.”

  Linc faced Joe. His friend’s expression was so damn bleak it broke Linc’s heart. “Do it,” Joe said. “I’ll be all right.”

  “I won’t leave you hangin’.”

  “You got to.”

  “Joe…”

  “Go, Linc. You got a chance.” The unspoken And I don’t hung heavily in the air.

  Torn, Linc nonetheless nodded. He turned to Scarpino. “All right.”

  Angus unlocked Beth first; her face was streaked with tears. Then the jailer opened Linc’s cell.

  Beth flew into his arms, and he held onto her. “Oh, Linc.”

  “Shh. It’ll be all right.” He’d never lied worse in his life. As he looked back at his friend, sitting on the ragged cot in the dismal jail cell of Glen Oaks, his face swollen from his father’s fist, Linc knew in his heart things wouldn’t be all right for any of them.

  He also knew that it was mostly his fault. And he’d have to live with that forever.

  Chapter 1

  *

  Spring 2003

  THE SILVER JAG sat low and sleek, hugging the curb in front of Zip’s Bar and Grill. Ron Donovan’s eyes narrowed on it, then glanced up the street to his mother’s place, The Downtown Diner. At midnight, the storefront was dark. She’d split for home hours before, but he could still see her disappointed face, hear her fed-up tone and angry words. No more hanging out with those guys, Ronny. I mean it.

  He kicked one of the rocks at his feet; it flew off the cement sidewalk into the road. Taking a drag on his Marlboro, he blew the smoke out in tiny little rings; the familiar tobacco scent calmed him. As he watched the puffs disappear into the March darkness, he remembered another night ten years before. The night his father, Danny Donovan—way cool dad, stellar husband and up-and-coming race car driver—had been killed.

  His mother hadn’t been yelling at him then. Instead she’d crept into his room and sank onto the edge of his bed where he lay, facedown. She’d gently turned him over, dried his freakin’ baby tears with the sleeve of her pajamas and cuddled him to her chest for a hug. Then she gave him the hot chocolate she always fixed when things were tough. As he drank, she whispered, You got me, buddy. We’ll be okay, I promise.

  Because the words stung like a son of a bitch—they’d been anything but okay thanks to Ron himself—and because the memory was an emotional knife twisting in his gut, he ground the cigarette under his boot, yanked up the leg of his jeans, and slid out the blade he’d bought in the city at Violence, Inc. His buddy Loose had introduced him to the seedy little shop in the Village. The metal was cold against Ron’s fingers—cold, slick and potent.

  The heavy feel of the weapon gave him courage; he stalked across the street toward the hotshot car just begging for his attention. The goddamned window was down, and its rich, expensive exterior was wide open—tempting a saint. Familiar fury built with each step Ron took; by the time he reached the car, a red haze of rage was ready to eat him alive.

  Memories of his grandmother’s scrapbooks fueled his anger. In them were pictures of his dad, not tall but muscular as hell, in his NASCAR helmet and racing suit. His mother’s dark hair had flowed down to her waist then, her big brown eyes twinkling at the camera. Wrapped up in his dad’s arm, she looked happier than Ron ever remembered seeing her. There were corny snapshots of him and his dad together, too. When Ron looked at them, sometimes he could still feel the heavy weight of his father’s arms hugging him tight. Ron was the spitting image of his dad, Grandpa Carl always said, right down to the curly brown hair, stubborn chin and dark eyes.

  Cursing the bastard who’d ruined it all, Ron jerked the knife up to hover over the Jag. Cocky and self-assured, that’s how the guy had been described in the newspapers—Tucker Quaid, aka The Menace, owner of this little baby and three-time Winston Cup champ. So sure of his dick-brained self that he left his car unlocked and the windows down. So sure of himself that he’d dare come back to Glen Oaks all these years later.

  Emotion clawed to get out of Ron. When it did, he cut the knife through the air. The sharp blade ripped the convertible top, meeting some resistance, but Ron got the job done. The soft gray leather of the driver’s seat with its rich new-car smell was an easier mark, the knife’s slice as smooth as a boat’s hull cutting through water. Ron only had to lean over to tear up the passenger side. Then, he squatted down and dug into the tire at his left. He stole around the car and made quick work of each one.

  With each righteous stroke of the blade, some of the haze lifted. Some of the defiance faded away. When he was done and surveyed the torn leather and shredded tires before him, he almost couldn’t remember making the dozens of cuts. Straightening, he went to stuff the knife in his boot when an arm like wood locked around his neck; fingers like steel encircled his wrist. His weapon clattered to the pavement with a rickety thud. Ron was slammed back against a rock-hard chest.

  “Damn fool kid,” the guy who cornered him barked out. “What the hell makes you think you can get away with this?”

  Ron had heard that sissy Southern drawl on TV; he knew whose voice it was. If he circled around, he’d see the big rangy body, the cropped blond hair and the cold green eyes of Tucker Quaid.

  The man who’d killed Ron’s father.

  *

  TUCKER QUAID PROWLED the police station waiting area, a stark twelve-by-twelve room smelling of stale coffee and furnished with sticky orange vinyl chairs. He was more keyed up than he used to get before a big race. With each step, he cursed a blue streak.

  He should’ve known that coming back to Glen Oaks would be bad news all around. But shit, he hadn’t planned on this. He’d been poleaxed when he’d learned the snot-nosed brat who’d slashed his Jag was Danny Donovan’s son. Tucker had jerked the knife out of the boy’s hand, smashed him face down on the hood, then pinned the kid there with his knee and chest. He’d whipped out his cell phone and punched in 911, only to hear, upon the arrival of a Lieutenant Pratt, who the vandal was. Damn it to hell. Couldn’t anything go right with this friggin’ family?

  Drawing a cup of coffee, he sipped the brew, wincing at its bitterness, scowling down at the scarred wood floor. As always, the guilt came, as clear and cold as a mountain lake—and just as sobering. Searching hard for his alter ego, The Menace, Tucker tried to block the images. But the kid looked so damn much like his daddy that the memories were impossible to backsto
p.

  This time Tucker was bombarded by one of the zillion headlines from the newspapers. Big, bold, accusing letters declared, Menace’s controversial blocking takes life of young driver NASCAR investigation to follow.

  Remorse had dogged Tucker like a rabid fan as he followed the racing circuit and climbed the slippery ladder of success until his own crash three years before had left him with a bum knee and no desire to race again.

  Yeah, hotshot, what’re you doing here, then?

  Tucker sighed. Good question.

  Before he could answer it, the door to the waiting area flew open and people hustled in. Aw, shit! It had to happen someday, since he was back in town, but he hadn’t expected it so soon, or when he was so raw, or when he’d had a couple of bourbons under his belt to lower his defenses. He tried to marshal them fast.

  Danny Donovan’s widow, and the guy with her, froze just inside the room. At a loss for words, Tucker simply stared at them, feeling like a Class-A bastard.

  Breaking the freeze-frame first, the man approached him. To Tucker’s surprise, he held out his hand. “I’m Linc Grayson, Mr. Quaid. Ronny’s uncle. We’re sorry about this.”

  Uncle. Grayson . He had to be Beth Donovan’s brother, then. Though Tucker hadn’t ever talked to her personally, he knew something about her family. “I reckon I’m sorry, too,” he said as he shook Grayson’s hand. Tucker tried to stifle the shame and stigma of his actions of ten years before, but they surfaced like topped-off gasoline when he stared over Linc Grayson’s shoulder into the rounded eyes and troubled face of the man’s sister. It about tore him up all over again.

  Dressed casually in jeans, a red sweatshirt and a windbreaker, she’d changed in the ten years since he’d last seen pictures of the grieving widow, as the papers had played it out. She’d been in her twenties then, with long dark hair and smooth, clear skin. No worry lines had marred her brow. No creases had framed her mouth. The wear and tear of raising a son alone, supporting herself, and dealing with her childhood sweetheart’s death had taken its toll on her. Though there was a womanliness about her now that could make a guy ache deep in his gut, she’d aged. And toughened up.