The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3)

by Gilley, Lauren

  He was terrier-like, she reflected. Even-keeled for the most part, his tenacity was an impressive sight.

  A thought formed, and she tried to push it down, but it was a stubborn one. “Walsh, there was something the fake cop told me. Something that happened at a bar in London. Pub, whatever you call it – he said civilians were killed during a confrontation. And he said – he said you had blood on your hands when they found you.”

  A glance showed that he was frowning, expression thoughtful as he dug back through the layers of the past. “I did. We were at Baskerville, and these wannabe tossers were trying to stir shit up. One of ‘em pulled a knife.”

  She dampened her lips. “He said you killed a woman.”

  Walsh’s gaze slid across the cab, challenging, but uncertain. “Do you believe that?”

  Did she believe the man she’d married, the man who called her “love,” the man who had been waiting for her on the precinct steps just now was the kind of man who killed women?

  “No,” she said, and felt a final loosening inside her. The Gordian knot that had formed early on relaxed at last, the tangles slipping free, the hollow relief bursting through her like joy. “I don’t believe that,” she said with new conviction, because, God, she didn’t. She couldn’t. She was with Walsh, bound to him by law, by the humming rhythms of her body and its desires – they belonged to one another, and that was too precious to waste because of the dark nasty things tied to his club. This was the choice fate had set before her: love the man and take on the club, all the violence it entailed, or be alone and ultimately stagger beneath the weight of her demons. Skeletons were going to own her either way – it was just a decision between his or hers.

  And the thing about Walsh’s blood-drenched, terrifying skeletons? The love made them worth it.

  She grinned suddenly, and flopped her head back against the seat. “No,” she repeated. “You didn’t kill her. You couldn’t have.”

  “Sure of that, yeah?” he asked.

  “I didn’t marry a murderer.”

  He was quiet a moment, then, “I told you I was a medical evac pilot.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I wasn’t a medic, but I’d seen them do their thing enough. I put my hands on her to try and stop the bleeding.” His voice stretched thin, growing fainter. “There was too much, and my hands weren’t enough.”

  She laid a hand on his forearm, that crinkly dusting of hair she loved to pass her fingers across, squeezed him and willed comfort. “Walsh…”

  “Just be thinking about your fake copper.”

  It was three when they got home, and the exhaustion hit her halfway up the sidewalk. When Walsh put his arm around her, she leaned into him.

  “You aren’t really going to wake them up, are you?” she asked as they passed into the dark, quiet house.

  He snorted like he couldn’t believe she’d said such a thing. “Of course I am. I got rogue FBI agents harassing my old lady, and you think I care about beauty sleep?”

  She wanted to smile, even as tired as she was, at the protectiveness in his tone. But then the rest of the sentence permeated her foggy brain. “Rogue FBI agent?”

  “Why don’t you put the kettle on, love? I’ll get the boys.”

  Since they had no kettle, and the only tea in the house was the orange-flavored crap she put in microwaved mugs of water, she put coffee on to brew and busied herself in the kitchen lest she fall asleep on her feet. The dinner mess had been sort of cleaned up by the guys, but in typical dude-fashion, they’d overlooked sauce drips on the counter and the pizza boxes were halfheartedly crammed into the garbage.

  When the coffee was done, she filled four mugs, set them on a cookie sheet to serve as a makeshift tray, and headed into the living room.

  Their houseguests were bleary-eyed, but awake, dressed in an identical uniform of undershirts and wrinkly jeans.

  “Sorry,” she said as she set the tray down and passed out mugs. “Walsh didn’t think it could wait.”

  “It can’t,” he insisted.

  Sly nodded his thanks for the coffee and dug a pack of Marlboros from his back pocket. “Mind if I smoke in here?”

  Emmie was too tired to be nervous, or polite for that matter. “Yeah, I do actually. This isn’t the sort of house for that.”

  Sly looked over at Walsh, lifted his brows, got a small smile in return.

  Sly tucked the smokes away and shot her a tiny, wry grin. “You sound like my wife.”

  “I’m gonna assume that’s a compliment.”

  “It is.” He took a long swallow of coffee. “Alright, doll, tell us all about him.”

  She gave them as much detail as she could remember, and by the end, they were both nodding.

  “That’s Grey,” Eddie said with a grim smile. “And this is a whole new level of asshole for him.”

  “Why’s he rogue, though?” Emmie asked.

  “It’s some kinda personal shame bullshit,” Eddie said. “It started with us…”

  “And moved on to us,” Walsh said. “He’s on some kind of demented crusade against the Dogs.”

  “Why? Not enough human traffickers and homegrown terrorists to keep him busy?” Emmie asked.

  Sly snorted.

  Walsh gave her a warm smile that was full of masculine pride. It was an atta girl smile, no mistaking it, and it sparked little fireworks in her stomach. “He’s off the clock,” he said. “His bosses have demoted him twice now, and it’s wrecked his head. He isn’t undercover, and he doesn’t have clearance to talk to any of us.”

  Fear skipped down her back. “A desperate man does desperate things.”

  Walsh leaned forward, braced his forearms on his knees. “Which is why I don’t want you out alone anymore. Becca doesn’t count,” he added when she started to protest. “And I’m getting you a gun. No argument on that point.” He actually shoved his index finger at her, all school headmaster-like.

  Emmie pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t smile. “A gun? I don’t know, Walsh…”

  “It’s happening.”

  ~*~

  She remembered her dad with a fast stab of guilt as they were climbing into bed. “How difficult was he?” she asked, wincing.

  Walsh flipped back the covers on his side and slid in beside her, wearing nothing but boxers. “I called in reinforcements.”

  “Oh no.”

  He flopped down onto the pillow and looked over at her. “Nah. Merc probably needed the exercise.”

  “Mercy?” She didn’t know if she should laugh. “He didn’t go into my father’s house, did he?”

  “He thought it was lovely.”

  She laughed and groaned at the same time, slipped down so she lay flat. “I’m an awful daughter,” she said. “I ought to go in there and clean that place up.”

  “You’re busy with work.”

  “Everyone’s busy with work.” She sighed. “That’s no excuse. First Mom abandoned him, and then I did.”

  Walsh made a disagreeing sound. “He’s a grown man, able-bodied, when he’s not piss drunk, and he’s married. You can’t always save them from themselves, love,” he added quietly. “You shouldn’t give away another part of your life just to take care of him.”

  She closed her eyes, like concentrating would keep the sweet, supportive words inside her mind longer.

  Thirty-One

  “Sir, Kenneth Teague is here to see–”

  “That’s alright, sweetheart, I’ll see myself in,” Ghost said, pushing past the desk clerk and into Vince’s office.

  Jessie, pale and nervous, backed out, pulling the door to behind her, leaving them alone together, outlaw and law enforcement officer.

  Vince took a deep, steadying breath. A simple conversation with Kenny Teague was like going a round in the ring. “This is about Emmie Walsh, isn’t it?”

  “What? No coffee? No ‘please have a seat’?” Ghost smirked and dropped into a visitor chair. “Straight to business then, like always, Vinnie. Alright, y
eah, it’s got something to do with Emmie, because she’s an old lady, and I take threats against all our women very personally.”

  “Threat? From what I gather, someone impersonated an officer and spooked her about the club.”

  “Someone? Don’t be cute, it doesn’t suit you.” He reached inside his cut, withdrew a sheaf of photos, and tossed them onto the desk. They landed with a splat sound and fanned out, sliding over one another. “Someone’s spying on my people, and you know exactly who it is, don’t you?”

  The pictures were of the Lean Dogs at home, with their wives, their children, having dinner, having…oh hell, he didn’t need to see Mercy and Ava doing that.

  He pushed them to the side and glared at Ghost. “What the hell?”

  “My question exactly. A…friend…brought those to me. Said he pulled them off your buddy Grey.”

  “And I’m supposed to take your word for it?”

  Ghost twitched a smile. “Well, if he’s taking pictures through windows, I’m guessing he was planning on doing something with them. Like, say, showing them to you.”

  “So I could do what?”

  “Well, in my case, I dunno – arrest me for not eating all my vegetables.” He reached forward to flick the corner of one photo, one that showed him and Maggie at the kitchen table.

  Vince’s stomach clenched at regular intervals that had him itching to reach for the Tums in his top desk drawer.

  “Oh yeah.” Ghost pulled something else from his cut. A man’s wallet. He flipped it open to reveal Grey’s ID.

  Vince reached for it and Ghost recoiled. “Aw nah. I’ll hold onto this for now.”

  “He’s not on assignment, I already checked,” Vince said. “But I’m guessing you already knew that.”

  “Yep.”

  “God, the implications of this…” He rubbed at his forehead, willing away the pounding ache building behind it.

  “I don’t give a shit about the implications. That’s the problem with you and your rules,” Ghost said with a sneer. “You logic yourself to death. This is simple. Grey is batshit fucking crazy, he’s doing very illegal things to try and hurt us, and it’s going to stop.”

  “I know.” He couldn’t believe he was agreeing with the man about something, but stranger things, and all that. “I’m going to report him. I’ll put a call into his supervisor.”

  “Do whatever you want,” Ghost said, standing. “This is your warning, Vince. If you want to do something about him, do it before I get to him.”

  Thirty-Two

  “Okay, now, it’s gonna kick some. The trick is to hold firm, but be relaxed. Got it? Firm, but relaxed.”

  Emmie nodded gravely, biting down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. “Got it.”

  “You’re sure?” Walsh settled his hands on his hips, one booted foot propped on a tree stump. In his clinging buffalo plaid shirt and jeans, the determined set to his brows, he looked like a miniature lumberjack.

  A smile almost got loose and she pressed her lips together. “Sure.”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing.” She wiped her face clean of all expression. “Are we shooting, or talking about it?”

  He grumbled something and reached down to pull the earphones out of the bag he’d brought.

  “What was that, sweetie?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  As the alarm had sounded that morning, Walsh had pounced on her, bearing her down into the mattress as he hovered above her, lips against her ear as he’d awakened her with, “We’re going shooting.”

  At any point during her zombie shuffle routine as they prepared, she could have told him about the guns she owned, the concealed carry permit she possessed, or her decent aim. Instead, she dragged on clothes and let him haul her across the pasture, over the gate, and back to the dead body property.

  So far, she’d been too bombarded with instructions for the vibes of the place to creep her out too badly.

  “Start with the target on the left” – he stepped up behind her and set the muffs over her ears, muffling the rest of his words – “just one shot, and then we’ll see where we need to go from there.”

  She nodded.

  When he’d secured his own ear protection and stepped back behind the firing line, she lifted her arms and set up her shot. He’d arranged three paper targets, affixed to old straw bales. The gun in her hands was one of his, a nine millimeter semiauto with only a moderate recoil.

  Easy as pie.

  Emmie squeezed off a round at the first target and moved to the second, the third, then back to the first. She dropped her arms as the echoes faded, and turned to face him, not quite restraining a smug smile.

  Walsh stared at her with open confusion, shock, maybe even a little admiration.

  “I own three handguns and a shotgun,” she told him. “I know how to shoot.”

  His mouth opened twice before he spoke. “You didn’t say anything.”

  “You didn’t ask. You just assumed.”

  Slowly, he took off his headgear, dropped it down into the bag, like he was in a daze. “I don’t know if that makes me feel stupid, or incredibly randy all of a sudden.”

  Emmie handed him the gun as he reached for it, pushed her earphones down around her neck. And grinned. “Either is acceptable.”

  He gave her a smirk from where he couched, loading the bag back up. “Take it you don’t need more practice?”

  “Nope. And I need to get to the barn.”

  “Gimme your ear thingies, then.”

  She did, and he zipped the bag up, giving her a view of the top of his head, the crazy cowlick in his thick hair she couldn’t see when he was standing. It was the sort of thing a mother would have spent long minutes trying to tame with water and a comb before he went off to school. The sort of thing that made a wife want to run her fingers through the thick thatch of golden spikes.

  Emotion surged through her slowly, a tide of warm, tender things she didn’t normally feel toward humans.

  “Hey, Walsh,” she said softly, and his head lifted immediately. “What does your mother call you?”

  He blinked, face unreadable as she stared at her. “King,” he said at last. “She always calls me by my first name.”

  “It suits you.”

  He forced a dry laugh and stood, bag slung over his shoulder. “No it doesn’t. I can think of a lot of blokes more kingly than me.” He made an impatient gesture that they start walking and she fell into step beside him.

  “And what makes them more kingly? Mink capes or crowns or something?”

  “Try height, weight, and just your general meanness.”

  Emmie stared at her feet, stepping high to keep from getting tangled in the tall, unkempt grass. “That has shit-all to do with being king.”

  He snorted, unconvinced.

  “I’m serious. Take horses, for example. There’s always that asshole horse who gives me hell, gives his pasturemates hell, holds the others off the water trough and kicks and bites any chance he gets. Around here, that’s Zeus. That palomino in the end stall. Total, incurable jerk. But you put him in the pasture with Apollo, and he straightens up. He doesn’t bully anyone else when Apollo’s around, because he knows he’ll get his ass kicked. Because Zeus,” she explained, “is like that wild stallion who never gains a herd of his own. And Apollo is the true lead horse. The real king.”

  She glanced over at her King. “A king is responsible,” she said seriously. “He takes care of his people. Even when they already know how to shoot.”

  He darted her a wary glance, and she smiled at him.

  “I’m complimenting you here.”

  “I know. Just not used to it.”

  His phone rang, and he sighed. “Oh, what in the bloody hell now?”

  “See? Responsible,” she said as he dug the offending device out of his pocket.

  “Not every king is worth a damn, you know. Henry VIII, hmm?”

  “I was talking a
bout good kings. Why even talk about the bad ones?”

  “Because the bad ones,” he said as he checked his phone, “are the ones that get you killed, pet.”

  ~*~

  “That was quick,” Walsh said as he joined Ghost in the precinct parking lot.

  The president stood leaning back against the brick wall of the building, arms folded, head tipped back like he was enjoying the sun on his face. “I’ve never seen ol’ Vinnie’s face look like it did this morning. He was good and freaked out.”

  “Good.” Walsh mirrored his pose, putting his back to the wall. “Surprised he called you though.”

  “I gave him some incentive, you might say.”

  “Hmm.”

  The front doors of the place opened and out came two agents in jeans, t-shirts and FBI flak vests walking a fuming Harlan Grey between them. He wasn’t in cuffs, but they had firm hands clamped on his biceps, and they pushed him down the steps and out toward a waiting black Suburban.

  “…unbelievable,” Grey muttered. “I wasn’t doing–” His gaze landed on the two of them, up against the wall. “You,” he snarled. “Fucking bastards. You’re gonna let them just stand there, career criminals, and you’re reprimanding me?!”

  Ghost gave the agent a wave and a dark, satisfied smile.

  Grey continued to bitch until he was shoved unceremoniously into the back of the SUV.

  Fielding appeared at the top of the stairs and started down them slowly, looked troubled and tired. “He was staying at the Marriott. When my guys got into his room, he was looking through more photos on his computer. His bosses aren’t happy,” he finished, drawing up beside them. He glanced toward the Suburban as it backed out of its parking spot. “He’ll lose his shield for this.”

  “Regrets?” Ghost asked.

  “None for him.” Fielding took a deep breath and let his shoulders slump afterward. “How ‘bout you guys try not to make me regret anything.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Walsh said.

  Ghost gave the man a salute.

  Another deep, bone-weary sigh. “Why don’t I ever believe you?”