With Patrick coming into town, Sean could cover a lot more territory and keep an eye on Bobbie the relief bartender. After talking to him last night, Sean suspected that Henry Callahan knew all the town secrets. Maybe Sean could convince him to be forthcoming, even if he had to find a way to protect him.
“Are you ready to go?” Tim asked. “I don’t think we’re going to learn anything here.”
“I’ve already learned a lot.” He wasn’t going to discuss what he suspected while they were still here. “It’s only been twenty minutes. I want to see who shows up in the next hour. Since we’ve sat here, four people have stepped out, and now the band.”
“Probably for a smoke.”
“Probably,” Sean said, not believing it for a minute. Smoking was the excuse. Someone had called in their sighting, and Sean wanted to know who.
Sean had swung by Ricky’s house on the way to the bar and his car wasn’t there, nor was there any sign that he’d been home since bolting this afternoon. If Sean could get him to talk, he’d protect the kid himself-or send him far from Spruce Lake. The U.S. Marshals had nothing on the Rogan family when it came to hiding people. But Ricky would have to be willing to share information and go all the way.
Could Paul Swain be running a drug operation from prison? Certainly a possibility if he was powerful enough. The police might not think the drug lab was still around, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t moved it nearby, or wasn’t involved in another way.
Sean knew a bit about the international drug trade-his brother Kane had been fighting drug and human trafficking in South and Central America for twenty years. It was war down there-murder, bribery, corruption. It was the same here, but on a smaller scale. Cleaner. Cops were harder to bribe, though not impossible. Corruption existed, but not as blatant or as widespread.
But a town like Spruce Lake would be perfect for drug running. Near the Canadian border, remote, with people desperate to survive and no way to get out. The big cities in Canada had the same drug and gang problems as big cities in America.
What was it about the resort that scared them? Drug labs were everywhere, littering both urban and rural areas. A resort in the middle of nowhere shouldn’t slow them down. Unless there was something about the location …
Sean had left the property maps in the cabin. Spruce Lake, the actual lake itself, was split between Hendrickson, Callahan, and federal land. But he didn’t see how that would be crucial to the dealers. There had to be something else going on that the few people the resort would bring in would jeopardize.
Maybe it wasn’t drugs. Maybe it was something else entirely. Which brought Sean back to: who would be hurt the most if the resort opened?
What bothered him at this point was the extent of the conspiracy. There had to be at least two people, other than Ricky and his uncle, who were involved. And a large number of people knew about it, and were either intimidated into keeping silent or part of the problem.
The swinging door leading from the kitchen burst open and Jon Callahan entered. He stopped abruptly at the sight of Bobbie.
She turned around and smiled. “Hello, Jon!” she said and waved from the opposite end of the bar.
Callahan didn’t speak. He looked around at the patrons, most of whom had cut their conversation down to a whisper. Something in his face shifted, and he smiled. “Would you be so kind, sugar, and pour me a Scotch?” He sat down next to Tim.
Bobbie slammed a glass on the counter in front of him.
“Don’t call me ‘sugar,’ Boss,” she snapped. The two stared at each other a beat too long.
“The Jameson will be fine,” Callahan said.
She splashed a shot into the glass, then strode back across the bar to her security.
Callahan nodded at Tim. “Things okay out at your place today?”
“Other than some prick taking potshots at my friend,” Tim said. Now that he was into the game, Tim was doing well, Sean thought. He let Tim run with the conversation.
“I didn’t know,” Callahan said. “I was in Montreal all day. Just got back.”
“No one was hurt,” Tim continued, “but I was thinking about what you told Adam last night. Maybe it would be best if we postponed the opening. I don’t know who’s screwing with me, but I can’t take the responsibility of protecting my guests from some gun-toting lunatic. Adam is really torn up about it.”
“He has his heart set,” Callahan agreed, “but it’s not forever. I’m sure things will get all smoothed over. And I’m happy to help with that over the next year.”
“Thanks, Jon. I appreciate it.”
Sean was missing a big piece of the puzzle. He watched the crowd. Everyone was focused on Jon and Bobbie, as if they were waiting for something to happen.
Sean decided to add fuel to the fire. “I didn’t think this town was big enough for two bartenders. Reggie was cute and all, but the redhead is cuter,” he said with a wink.
“Reggie deserves some time off,” Jon said. “I didn’t know when I’d be back from Montreal.”
Sean hadn’t expected that answer. Obviously, Jon hadn’t known Bobbie was going to be here. He observed the way his eyes watched her in the mirror behind the bar. Was this a turf war? Over a town of fewer than four hundred people?
Sean glanced around the bar again. No one was ordering anything, food or drink. Trina stood at a table in the far corner with two older men and an even older woman. Conversation was virtually nonexistent. The band was still out on break.
“Any news about the body in the mine?” Jon asked suddenly.
“Not that I know,” Sean said.
“Did you check the missing persons in the area?”
“Yes, we looked through them. No one matched.”
“I didn’t know you saw the body,” Jon said. “Didn’t you say it was your girlfriend who found her? What an awful experience for such a sweet girl.”
Sean didn’t deny having seen the body, though Deputy Weddle and the Fire and Rescue guys knew that only Lucy had seen it. Sean’s protective instincts kicked in. Was Lucy in danger because she was the only person to have seen Agent Sheffield?
He discreetly sent Lucy a text message to check in and make sure she was all right while telling Jon, “Yeah, but Lucy’s tough. She works at a morgue.”
“Still, that must have been a shock.”
“I think it was more of a shock that the body disappeared,” Sean said. He watched Bobbie in his peripheral vision. Her head was turned away from them, toward the bodyguard, but her body language-the way her feet were pointed, her hair tucked behind her ear and her body turned just a bit too much in his direction-told Sean she was listening intently.
“How long are you staying on?” Jon asked casually. Too casually. Bobbie was definitely listening for the answer.
Sean shrugged. Bobbie looked over her shoulder, ostensibly to inspect her patrons’ beers, but she made no attempt to refill their empty mugs.
Sean glanced at Tim. “It hasn’t been much of a vacation, wouldn’t you say?”
“Sorry about that.”
Sean shook his head. “No worries. Lucy and I were talking about sticking around for a few days. Try to relax, give my leg a couple more days to get back full mobility. And I promised Deputy Weddle we’d be available for questions whenever the detective assigned to the arson comes around. I’ve never seen such disinterested police before.”
“Odd,” Jon said. “They are usually so responsive.”
Bobbie sauntered over. “Can I get you boys refills?”
She wanted to talk. Sean didn’t want another beer, but he nodded. “Thanks-Bobbie, right?”
She grinned. “That’s right, sugar.” She poured two more drafts for him and Tim. She glanced at Jon, and he held up his glass. She grabbed a bottle off the shelf and poured two fingers while glaring at Jon.
Sean had a sudden idea. He and Tim should hit Henry Callahan now, while his nephew was here. He didn’t know how much time he’d have, but if they left and s
ped over there, he might have ten, fifteen minutes.
He drained half his beer. Tim gave him an odd look. Sean made a motion that he wanted to leave. He glanced at his phone. Lucy had responded to his message.
I’m fine. All quiet. You?
Good, she was safe for now, but he sent her a message to be diligent and to say he’d be late. He then inconspicuously snapped a no-flash picture of Bobbie. It was not quite three-quarters of a profile shot, but Sean couldn’t risk getting closer or waiting until she was looking at him.
The band returned from their break and started tuning up their instruments. Sean used the disruption to stand, stretch, and put twenty dollars on the bar. “Jon, good to see you again. My leg’s acting up; I think we’re going to call it an early night.”
“Stop by before you leave town,” Jon said. “I’ll buy you lunch for the road.”
“Thank you, I’ll do that.” Sean tipped an imaginary hat to Bobbie. He sent the picture to Duke and Patrick when he walked outside and began to text. The air had turned much colder now that the sun was down.
Says her name is Bobbie. Possibly Roberta Swain. Five feet six inches, 125 lbs, dark red hair, might be dyed darker than natural, but is natural redhead (eyebrows). Has bodyguard or boyfriend who is in security. Approx. 180, five ten to six feet, blond, blue, possibly Russian or Scandinavian descent. Need to confirm Bobbie’s identity, run through all databases.
“What was that about?” Tim asked.
“One sec,” Sean said as he finished typing his message and sent it. “More work for my brother,” he said with a grin.
He unlocked his truck. On the driver’s seat was a torn slip of paper. Unlike the first warning this morning, this was scrawled in small, hurried block letters, but Sean knew it was from the same person.
Sean looked around, his hand on his gun. He didn’t see anyone. He carefully picked up the paper, using the tips of his fingers to hold it by the corners.
I TOLD YOU TO GO HOME. NOW YOU CAN’T.
THEY HAVE YOUR GIRL’S FLIGHT SCHEDULE.
TWENTY-TWO
Ricky parked at the abandoned farm behind Skyline Bible Church, then trudged through the fallow fields until he reached church property. He’d driven the back roads for hours, thinking about running away. But how could he? He had nothing. Finally, at sundown, he returned to town. He’d waited in the pine trees on the edge of the church parking lot for an hour until Reverend Browne finally left. He sat completely still, not thinking or feeling anything because he didn’t want to cry. It was dark when Ricky slipped from his hiding place and ran across the street to the dimly-lit cemetery where he visited his mother at least once a week. Where soon he would visit his uncle Jimmy.
His grandfather, Lawson Swain, was buried here, but Ricky hadn’t known him. He’d been convicted of murder when Ricky was three, and all he remembered was that Lawson had smelled of tobacco, rarely spoke, and when he did his voice was deep and scary and Ricky didn’t know why his mother would squeeze him tight whenever they were in the same room as his grandfather. Ricky didn’t remember anything about the trial and had never seen his grandfather again, until he was buried in this cemetery when Ricky was nine. That was two years before his father went to prison. Three years before he returned to bury his mother.
Ricky knelt in the damp grass of the small cemetery and stared at his mother’s simple headstone. The soft lights outside the church enabled Ricky to see the angel carved above her name.
SWAIN
Abigail Anne
Beloved wife and mother
“The Lord is my Shepherd.”
February 12, 1965-March 1, 2006
His mother had chosen the epitaph. His father wanted it to be “Vengeance is Mine, sayeth the Lord,” but he had no say because he was in prison and Abigail had a written will.
Vengeance is mine.
Ricky was beginning to understand what vengeance meant.
Jimmy had been angry when Ricky told him about the fire and what happened at the mine, but his uncle was more scared than mad. He’d warned Ricky not to get involved with Reverend Browne, but Ricky hadn’t thought about any of that. All he remembered was the pain and loneliness of losing his mother, then Joe Hendrickson. Reverend Browne had said he’d help get Ricky what he wanted most of all: a way out of Spruce Lake.
Anyway, Jimmy was a hypocrite. Telling Ricky to stay out of the business, but getting in deep himself. So deep that Ricky didn’t believe him when Jimmy said it was to protect Ricky. Protect him from what? The monster? Ricky didn’t believe she’d set foot in Spruce Lake again. If she did, Ricky would kill her himself.
He cringed as he thought of the last words he’d said to his uncle.
“You’re a fucking hypocrite, Uncle Jimmy.”
Ricky knew exactly what was going on in Spruce Lake. The drug trade was alive and well. And Ricky couldn’t care less about it, other than it was his ticket out of here. What people did to themselves was their business; Ricky had no need to give up control of his mind and body to drugs. Maybe it was even his father who’d convinced him of that with all the lectures and warnings, ironic considering how his father made his money.
You’re better than that, Rick.
His father had considered drug users weak and helpless, but he had no problem manufacturing the product that kept them dependent.
Ricky desperately wanted someone to tell him what to do, but he had no one to trust. He wanted to trust Sean Rogan, but why would that guy help him? He had to have an ulterior motive.
“Mom, I don’t know what to do.”
His voice was scratchy and thick. He swallowed and coughed, his head low.
Jimmy was gone. Reverend Browne wasn’t acting himself. Something was happening, and it was the first time since his mother had died that Ricky didn’t know everything that was going on in Spruce Lake.
He was scared and angry and there was only one person who might be able to help him, but Jimmy had told Ricky to go to him only in an emergency. Well, this was a fucking emergency! Jimmy was dead, and something big was going down on Sunday.
Headlights cut down the road as three cars turned toward the church. Ricky lay flat on the ground, partly shielded by his mother’s grave marker. He didn’t think they saw him. They were going into the church, eight or nine of them. Ricky knew all of them. The reverend. Andy Knolls, the weird guy at the Gas-n-Go who used to give only the girls free candy, until he touched Lisa Thompson’s twelve-year-old breasts and her father beat him nearly to death. The creepy guy Andy hung around with, Gary Clarke. He wasn’t from Spruce Lake; he hadn’t shown up until Ricky’s father went to prison. Some of the other regulars.
A fourth car drove up. It was a luxury rental, sleek and black. A blond guy got out. Ricky could read City Boy in his crisp jeans and black button-down shirt. And who wore trench coats in Spruce Lake? He looked mean, and Ricky might have been scared, but then he saw who got out of the passenger’s seat and he was terrified.
The monster is back.
Even through his fear, Ricky had one thought.
Vengeance is mine.
The monster had killed his mother. She’d stolen the money that his dad had hidden before he went to prison. The money to pay for his mother’s chemotherapy and surgery.
His mother had had a good chance of surviving if she’d had the necessary treatment.
And Bobbie had even known that when she took the money.
TWENTY-THREE
Sean drove Tim to his house and, after getting directions to the Callahans’ place, he asked Tim to check in on Lucy. Sean had already warned her about the note he’d found in the truck. He didn’t want to leave her longer than he had to, but he had questions he was certain Henry Callahan could answer.
As soon as he drove away from the Hendricksons’, his cell phone rang. It was his brother, Duke, calling from California.
“Confirmed,” Duke said. “Roberta Swain Molina, a.k.a. Bobbie Swain.”
“That was fast.” Sean had sent th
e picture less than thirty minutes ago. “She’s married?”
“Widowed. Her husband, a known drug smuggler, was murdered in his bed and Bobbie left for dead in what the police believe was a retaliation killing. A killer for a rival cartel came in through a window, slit Herve Molina’s throat, and attacked Bobbie. She fought back, but nearly died from blood loss. Their safe was emptied.”
“It’s not like those guys to leave a witness.”
“She fingered him, but also told her husband’s security chief who did it, and Molina’s people got to him first. Tortured and killed him. His knife was found in the bushes outside the window with both Molina’s and Swain’s blood on it.”
“That must have been hell to live through. Could have changed anyone.”
“Don’t lose sleep over what happened to Bobbie Swain,” Duke said. “According to both Molina’s cartel and others, she was just as ruthless as her husband. Kane heard the same thing, plus a nasty rumor.”
“You called Kane?”
Their brother Kane Rogan knew near everything about the international drug trade.
“You said you needed the information fast. Molina’s murder started a drug war. And Bobbie Swain walked away.”
“Drug lords don’t usually let people leave the business,” Sean commented.
“Kane’s theory was that she and Julio Gomez worked together to kill her husband, then Gomez turned on her, not wanting a witness. It’s all about access-logistically, Gomez needed an inside accomplice to access her husband’s safe.”
“But Bobbie managed to survive and fingered Gomez.”
“Molina’s people never thought she was involved, and she walked away. It was a bloody fight between Molina’s people and Gomez’s. In the end, a third player rose to the top of the food chain. Someone named Theo Corbin, an American who is affiliated with some nasty people in Colombia.”
Sean nearly missed the narrow, rutted driveway that marked the Callahan property. He made a sharp left turn and his truck barely cleared the old posts. A single light on the right illuminated a weatherworn metal sign:
If I Should Die lk-3 Page 16
