Deacon is a tall son of a bitch at almost seven feet. His physique and short, dark hair make him the perfect walking model for a runway or magazine. The former high school basketball all-star joined the United States Navy to become a SEAL. One mission took out all of his team but three. He’d had enough of the military life when he found out information was leaked on an inside deal. The truth cuts deep. Men died and not because a mission simply went bad. Trading in his frogman days for a life with no ties, he’s a man of few words. When he speaks, though, we damn sure take notice.
With a smirk, I say nothing as they both make their way inside their perspective rooms. In less than ten minutes, Deacon emerges with a shit-eating grin.
“Cold showers don’t bother me as much as you think, brother,” he states casually as he walks to his bike to drop his gear inside his saddlebag. Well, that may be the case while we are down south, but a Vermont winter morning will have him singing a whole different tune.
It doesn’t take long for the others to make their way out, as well.
Going over to my bike, I open my saddlebag. My hand grazes the file, and I can’t stop myself from pulling it out.
Cold Case. The stamp on my sister’s file haunts me every minute of every day. I knew it wouldn’t change my own past when I got my criminal justice degree. In the beginning, I was hoping to help my community.
I became a cop to stop other families from living through what my family did. Well, I was a cop until I couldn’t stand stamping another file as a cold case again. Leaving Tennessee behind, I hit the open road with this file and a whole lot of bad fucking memories of too many victims and their families going with justice unserved.
Seeing the other side of the system was just as messed up as the criminals we were supposed to be seeking out only solidified my need to be free. Day in and day out, feeling like every single case was one losing battle after another took its toll.
“Looks like we are more than passing through this town, after all. Got word.” Rowdy looks directly to me. “Alias is solid here as Randy Jones,” he says while securing his saddlebag latches. “Leed, Alabama was his last known address, working at Old Dog’s Rebel Ink shop.”
“He’s a better judge of character than to hire a child murderer,” Trapper defends a man he’s known longer than all of us.
“We’ll find out in time,” X says somberly.
None of us want to bring bad news to Earl’s door. He’s always been one of the good ol’ boys and a damn good tattoo artist.
“You’ve spent years on this, Collector, so it’s your call. When you decide you’re sure, we’ll back you all the way, brother,” Judge chimes in.
He’s right. I have spent years investigating this.
After my sister’s body was found, I made it my life’s mission to bring justice to her killer. Modern science gave us a DNA sample of the semen retrieved from her postmortem rape kit. That’s the only thing that will conclusively prove the man’s guilt after all this time.
There wasn’t a sample in the database at the time to match it back then. Since her death, though, there have been other victims all over the country, all of their cases remaining unsolved. The only common link is the semen he leaves behind.
The sick bastard sliced her inside and out before he fucked her as she bled out. After what they think to be hours of him playing with her body in every way imaginable and some unimaginable, he tied her wrists above her head to a cement block and left her naked in the drain pipe under the Old Mill Road no one uses anymore with her mouth taped shut. Her yellow ribbon was gone. The yellow ribbon that was in her hair, the one she believed could provide world peace or some shit.
No one ever came forward. No one ever found her bicycle or her clothes. No one ever figured out how he got her. We only know she was raped and killed by a man because of the semen left behind. Same thing in eight other files.
For me, this wasn’t any case, and it isn’t just another case; it’s Raleigh’s lifeline. I refuse to let my sister rest in peace until her killer is found and serves my form of punishment.
Using every resource available to me, I tracked down a name. Living in a small town, people don’t simply come and go. Tracking down each person who left within a year of Raleigh’s murder, I found a pattern in one individual. From there, I have followed one alias to another as this sick fuck continued his mayhem everywhere he went.
Robert Jacobs—first known name—rented a trailer in the mobile home park four miles from our house. He lived in Cloverville, Tennessee for three years, working as an apprentice in a tattoo shop before my sister was brutally killed. Between the time of her disappearance and her body being recovered, he relocated, and the trail was gone.
The next incident was in Iowa where the only resident to leave during the window of little Melissa Honeycutt’s disappearance and discovery was Ronald Joel—known name number two. Following there, the next victim was twelve-year-old Natasha Ames, and the matching resident to leave Oregon was Reeves Jarold. Same cold trail, same initials, and same sick, twisted story leaving another family in shambles.
The names and cities change, but I will bring this motherfucker down if it’s the last thing I ever do. I am determined the devil will get what he’s due. Making this fucker pay for all the lives he took is going to be my blessed ride to hell. Most importantly, this is for Raleigh.
Randal Jones—alias number nine—lives in a pop-up camper in a trailer park, according to what we dug up. He also landed himself a job with our old friend Earl “Old Dog” Wilbur. Old Dog is not one to fuck over. Earl’s damn sure going to want to hit something or shoot something when he finds out exactly what kind of piece of shit is hiding out under his roof.
“Laundry day,” Rowdy barks out, looking at his phone. “Got a place right down from where our man is, too.”
“Ride out,” I reply, tucking the file back into my saddlebag. “You lead, Rowdy.”
We all climb on our steel machines and make our way to the Quarter Clean shop. It’s funny, but as we cross the country, we go from hotels with laundry services available to ones that don’t, using different wash and dry establishments.
We have been to places like the one in front of us with its brick facade, large glass windows, and a glass door leading in. There are two rows of washers down each wall stacked on top of each other with two rows of dryers down the middle. We find no employees, just a coin machine by the front door. The vending machine in the back has snacks, detergent, stain remover, fabric softener sheets, and mini bleach bottles so we can get our whites their brightest, or what the fuck ever they say on the commercials.
The bigger cities with thriving economies offer a wash, dry, and fold “elite service” where, for a fee, our clothing can be laundered and folded. To me, it’s a bunch of shit to cater to some stuck-up fuck whose momma didn’t teach him how to wash his shit stains. Personally, I don’t need someone to fold my fucking boxers; I just need clean clothes.
We park two to a spot and grab our shit to go inside. The place is empty when we walk in, but it doesn’t take long before two waitresses from the café across the street make their way over. We each pick a washer, and having only enough to keep in our bags on our bikes, it only takes one per person. Getting soap from the machine and popping in the quarters, we get started.
“Need help, boys?” the tall waitress with pink streaks in her blonde hair asks.
I look around the room. “Don’t see any boys here.” I say to Rowdy, “You see any boys?”
Her friend laughs one of those obnoxious cackles women do for attention that clearly says she really doesn’t find me funny.
Good thing for us both since I’m not joking.
Rowdy being, well, Rowdy, reaches down and grabs his crotch. “Nah, Collector, no boys here. I’m all fucking man.”
Rowdy is my right hand man. We met when he came after my ex-partner for putting him away for a dime for a crime he didn’t commit. The last case I ever worked officially with a badge w
as the very one that kept Rowdy’s ass from going back to lock up, this time for the crime he did commit. Spending so much time with my ex-partner, I learned all too quickly how fucked up the system and the man really were. He took away Rowdy’s freedom and his future. Rowdy took away his life. I can’t say I blame him, either. Eye for an eye, motherfucker.
Rowdy spent ten years of his life in an eight-by-eight cell, planning his revenge. He also used the time in the yard as a free gym membership. He went from a lanky, tall man to a tank who can lift more than four times his weight without breaking a sweat.
Within the first few months of his stay in Tennessee’s maximum security prison, his woman turned ghost, and his life was as if he never existed. Losing it all leaves a man few options for how he reacts.
Like his name, he’s not afraid to get a little rowdy. He’s also more than happy to get his hands a little dirty, even if the risk is time back in the hole. If he goes back, this term will be a minimum of life.
Her black-haired friend steps up and rubs her hand over Rowdy’s. “Can I see for myself?” she purrs.
“On your knees,” he commands, and she drops while he strokes himself through his denim.
I turn away, not caring to watch since this isn’t the first time any of us have given a show. I can’t help wondering if there will come a time when the pussy isn’t so easy, when we will all have to work to get ourselves rock hard.
I hear the slurping sound of his chick getting to work and instantly need a fucking cigarette. As I step outside, I hear Trapper say, “Can’t give you the spin cycle with the way these machines are, but we can damn sure see how wet you can get on the dryer.”
Well, that takes care of chick two.
I light my smoke and take a drag. I feel too old for this shit. The minute I think like that, I think about my sister who was far too fucking young to die. I have a job to do, and I won’t rest until it’s done.
Looking to the sky, I see the white clouds floating above without any sign of the damage being done minute after minute in the world below. Inhaling the clean, country air, I let my lungs burn before allowing myself to exhale. Small town, Alabama … small town, anywhere, it’s no different than a big city. Crime still happens anywhere at any time.
Leaning against the brick wall, I finish my cigarette and relax. Traffic is slow at this time of day. I rub my chest as I think of all the innocent people who don’t even realize the monster that may be in their midst.
The door opens, and the ladies walk out, adjusting their clothing. The black-haired woman struts over to me. She reaches out to grab my crotch, but I grip her wrist, halting her movements.
“Not interested,” I say, hoping she will back off.
If my morning hadn’t been the reminder of why we are in this town this very moment, I might have been in the mood to take her up on the offer. Release is release, and it’s always better when it’s given by someone else.
Today, though, I want to get back to Old Dog’s. I’ll get some new ink and find out just who works for him.
The sooner I can get a DNA sample, whether by force or theft, the quicker I can find out if my little sister’s case is hot instead of cold.
Chapter Four
~Emerson~
Anxiety fills me as I get up to start my day. Sitting on my bean bag chair to watch the fish swim, I work to mellow my mood.
Their life is contained in the rectangular shape of the aquarium. The water temperature and balance are controlled by me. The oxygen they intake through their gills is filtered through a machine, ensuring the proper balance throughout their environment. As long as nothing happens to me, their food, shelter, and exposure is all promised and guaranteed to be safe. Unlike life in the ocean, they don’t have to worry about being prey to some unseen predator. The unknown doesn’t exist for them.
My life was once very much controlled by a box. After Raleigh went missing, my parents pulled me out of school to keep me under lock and key. I was never alone, to the point that my mother put an additional bed in my room and slept there instead of with my father. In time, the distance between them grew, and my father spent more time at work than at home.
In the blink of an eye, all of our safety was ripped away, and in its place was overwhelming fear. Kids didn’t go missing in Cloverville, Tennessee. Kids certainly didn’t turn up raped and murdered. We lived three houses apart. In the space from her home to mine, she was gone.
I trace the bow on my wrist, leaning back and closing my eyes. I can see her smiling face as if it were yesterday.
Tonight, Dover may come into the shop, expecting to get inked. Can I do this?
Blowing out a breath, I think, For Raleigh, I will face her brother.
Without giving myself time to overthink, I clean up the house with a quick sweep of the floors before changing into jeans and a black, sleeveless top that shows my ink. Straightening my long, black hair first, I then braid it to the side. As ready as I will ever be, I walk out the back door, throwing on my leather jacket as I head to my bike.
Pausing, I think, I should lock the door. I have this same battle inside me every time I come or go. No place is safe. Locking my house seems practical. However, after living the way I did for nine years after Raleigh died, I just can’t bring myself to be locked in anywhere. All those years, my parents felt that, by controlling my environment, they could somehow shelter me, only allowing me to feel trapped and to dwell on the loss of my friend. Every time I walk out of any place without locking a door, I feel this satisfaction of rebellion.
The day I turned eighteen, I walked out of my parents’ house and never looked back. I had no friends, no family, nothing more than the clothes on my back and the little bit of money I had stashed away from my mom’s purse.
Getting myself a room at the little hotel in town, I found a job waiting tables at the diner. My mom put out a missing persons report that immediately had the cops begging me to go home since I really wasn’t hard to find since I damn sure wasn’t missing. However, I couldn’t live like that anymore. I couldn’t be a prisoner in my own home.
When my mother started spending her days at the diner, sitting at a corner table just to watch me, it became a mission to save every penny. When I had enough, I broke down, begging my dad to make her stop chasing me. Instead, he gave me some cash and took me to the bus station where he handed me a ticket south. Not knowing a soul, I got off the bus to set myself up here in Leed, Alabama and haven’t been home in years.
I sent a letter, informing my parents I was safe, but I was done living life under their terms. I wanted to be free.
Raleigh would want me to live for both of us.
A job at a diner here led me to Earl. Apparently, the old man loves scrambled eggs with burnt toast. He came in every morning, sat in my section, and one day, he found me sketching on a napkin, something I had loved to do since I was a child. Well, it wasn’t long before he was teaching me how to take my simple sketches and ink them permanently on people’s skin. More than that, he gave me business sense, teaching me how to build up solid clientele. He is my family now.
Entering the shop at noon since my first appointment is at one, I take the time to set up my station and clear my mind. As I ready the transparency, prepping my ink wells, each step of my routine soothes my soul.
Art is my life. From every stroke of my pencil in a sketch to the prick of my tattoo gun’s needle piercing skin, it is me.
Up first today, I have the second session to a half-sleeve with a memorial portrait in the middle. The picture of a girl with blonde curls and bright blue eyes all filled with the same childhood innocence I once had. Cancer took her away from the ones who love her most.
The gruff sound of Old Dog greeting a client has me smiling.
“Sonnie’ll be up to get you shortly.” There is no hello, no casual pleasantries, just straight to the point.
“Umm, I’m here for Randy,” a female voice squeaks out.
“Well, he ain’t in yet. Take a
seat and hope he’ll be here soon,” Earl replies before I hear the heavy footfalls of his boots heading down the hallway to my station. “Sonnie, your appointment is late, and so is Randy. I think we have a better chance of your guy getting here before that man.”
“This is true,” I say with a smile.
Randy isn’t one for a schedule. He also isn’t one who believes in having a phone. He wandered into this place not long after me. He had experience, so Earl took him on so he could have more time to teach me. Randy is good at old school military tattoos and black and gray, but portraits and bold colors are not his thing. Luckily for me and Earl, it is my forte.
Going out front, I see a young woman sitting nervously in our waiting area. I check the appointment book and don’t see anyone listed for Randy. In this time slot, there is nothing, just a simple line blocking it off.
Something about her has me curious.
“Whatcha getting done?” I ask, trying to lock onto her gaze.
She twists her hands. “A piercing,” she answers barely above a whisper without meeting my eyes.
“Randy is unpredictable at best. I have a few minutes before my appointment arrives, so I can fit you in.” I grab the paperwork for her to fill out. “Just need you to sign off on this and see your ID, babe.”
She jumps up and runs out without looking back or giving me the chance to ease her fears. What the hell? I know it’s a needle, but it’s over in a flash.
My client walks in just as I start to wonder if she was even old enough to get a piercing. I make a mental note to take this up with Old Dog later. If Randy does some fucked up shit like that, it could get the whole shop shut down.
The twenty-four-year-old man in my chair is emotional as I ink his body with a permanent mark of the precious girl in the photo. With care, I add touches of white to give a highlight and contour to the skin, making the picture come to life.
“Your little girl was beautiful,” I say, genuinely meaning it.
In The Red: Nomad Bikers (Devil's Due MC Book 1) Page 3
