The Word of a Liar

by Beauchamp, Sally

  Amelia giggled, “You wouldn’t really do that, would you, Daddy?”

  “Try me.” Mad Dog narrowed his eyes and then began to tickle her side.

  Amelia laughed and squirmed until Mad Dog stopped. He turned to Tess.

  Her expression, too serious for her seventeen years, bothered Mad Dog. She rose up on her elbow. “You know, Dad, I’ve been thinking about when I graduate this spring. I don’t have to go away to school next fall. I can always live here and take classes at the community college. That way I could help you with Amelia.”

  Mad Dog smiled. Her feminine beauty matched his male good looks, but her demeanor was so much like her mother’s it was uncanny. Gina had been soft-spoken and always worrying. Like Tess, she always put others ahead of herself.

  “You can’t take care of your old man and your sister forever, Tess. Someday you’ve got to begin a life of your own.”

  “I want Tess to stay here and take care of us. I don’t want her to be away at school all the time,” Amelia said and laid her head on Mad Dog’s chest.

  “I know you do, sweetie. But Tess needs to be thinking about her own life and having some fun.”

  He stroked Amelia’s hair, looking at his oldest daughter. “You’re a beautiful young woman. You don’t need to be straddled with your widower father and your preteen sister.”

  “Will you promise me you’ll at least think about it? It would save you a lot of money.” Tess cocked her head and grinned.

  “Yes, I promise, if you promise me you’ll consider going away to school. And don’t worry about the money. We’ve always gotten by. I might have to sell a kidney or a lung, but you’re worth it.”

  Tess kissed Mad Dog’s cheek. “I promise.”

  She lay back down.

  Snuggled in their father’s arms, the girls lay quiet. Mad Dog listened to the cold December wind howling outside the window. It had been storming since late afternoon. He’d barely made it home from work the snow had been so heavy.

  “From the sound of that wind, I don’t think the two of you will be having school tomorrow.”

  “Good,” The girls said in unison.

  Time passed in silence. Mad Dog thought his daughters had fallen asleep, but then Amelia whispered, “I can hear your heart beating, Daddy.”

  Her sleepy voice brought tears to his eyes. She rolled over, taking up half the bed. Soon her heavy breathing told him she was asleep. Mad Dog looked at Tess. Eyes closed, she slept, too.

  He looked around the dark room. He didn’t need light to know the room looked exactly the way Gina had left it two years before. Her clothes still hung in their closet and laid folded in their dresser, her smell slowly fading away. A recording of Gina’s voice answered their telephone calls, so he wouldn’t forget the sound of it.

  If he changed things, he’d have to face the cold, horrific truth that Gina was gone. She was never going to holler at him for his annoying channel surfing habit, grease under his nails, or the chores he never got to. He didn’t want to consider the alarm clock had permanently replaced her voice. At night when the house was dark and still and the children slept, he would never feel her in his arms. The misery of his grief had abated, but it wasn’t gone. On the contrary, it laid just below the surface, and when some little thing would remind him of her, his crippling anguish returned.

  Still unnerved by the dream, he sat upright, folded his arms behind his head, and looked up at the ceiling.

  It was an ordinary night. Gina was bartending at the Ritz and going to be home late because she had to close the place. I helped Amelia with her schoolwork and then put her to bed. Tess was in her room working on her laptop, and Sean, who’d just gotten home from his job at the grocery store, watched television in the living room. The day had been very busy at the shop, and I was extremely tired. I told Sean to lock up when he went to bed and not to stay up too late because he had school in the morning. On my way to my bedroom, I peeked in on Tess and kissed her goodnight. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. In the early hours of the morning, I was awakened by some unearthly sound I never could identify.

  I glanced at the clock. Four a.m. and Gina was still not home. I went downstairs to see if she had fallen asleep watching television, but the house was quiet. The light above the kitchen sink still glowed in anticipation of her arrival. I didn’t immediately panic but began to feel concern. I called the bar, letting it ring several times. No answer. Then I phoned her cell and only got her voice mail. That’s when my fear began to take hold. I went upstairs to dress and then went into my son’s room. I shook him awake.

  “Sean, I’m going to the Ritz,” I told him. “Mom isn’t home yet, and there’s no answer when I call. If we happen to miss one another, tell her I went to check on her. I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay,” Sean mumbled.

  I got into my truck. In bitter defiance of April, winter had crawled through emerging lawns and left mottled patches of snow. Traffic lights flashed yellow or red as I drove down the deserted streets. At the Ritz, I saw Gina’s car parked in the back. That’s when my fear worsened into panic.

  I pulled in next to her vehicle. Knees weak, I stumbled out of the truck and over to the employee entrance. The jimmied door sucked the air from my lungs. I pulled my pistol from my shoulder holster and then stepped into the storeroom.

  “Gina!” I shouted. My voice was so hoarse that it didn’t even sound like me. I needed water. A monstrous stillness hung in the room. A bare bulb burned brightly over the large laundry sink. I moved cautiously into the barroom.

  “Gina!” I called out again. “Are you in here?”

  With my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, I tried to swallow. The rich oak-varnished bar glistened under the lights. I’d never felt such a heavy, strangling stillness. Blood throbbed in my ears as my eyes fell upon a bucket of water sitting on a tabletop. I glanced downward and then stopped. Gina lay next to an overturned chair. Her legs were twisted in its wooden rungs, and the rag she’d been using to clean the tables was still crumpled in her hand. I shrieked in terror.

  “Gina!”

  Drawing close, I noticed a dark puddle of blood partially concealed by her brown hair. Her coffee-colored eyes looked up at me. Her olive skin had turned a ghostly white, and between her eyes was a small, swollen hole, its edges blackened with gun powder and dried blood.

  “Oh, my God!” I groaned into the harsh silence, collapsing to my knees. “What’s happened?”

  I sobbed, scooping her cold, limp body into my arms. I wove my fingers into her tangled hair, and that’s when my fingertips fell into a hole of soft matter. A deep, throaty moan tore through my soul. It wrenched itself free and then floated ominously throughout the stagnant room. I rocked her in my arms. The sticky feel of her blood on my hands and the faint smell of gunpowder clinging to her skin smothered me. I threw back my head and howled like a wolf caught in a trap. My tortured sounds of grief and agony collided with the sobs catching in my throat.

  I don’t remember how long I held her before I called 911, but from then on the true nightmare began. Nothing had been stolen from the bar, so someone had wanted my wife dead. I, being her husband, was considered by the police as a man with a motive. Having to face my wife’s death, my children’s shock and sadness, and then being held responsible completely overwhelmed me. Little by little, I drowned myself in a whiskey bottle.

  If it hadn’t been for Rambo and Sons of Thunder, I wouldn’t have made it. They watched over me and fed my children when I could barely get out of bed. They dragged my ass to work every day and stood up to the relentless reporters who questioned me about my wife, our relationship, and my membership in the club.

  A few months after the funeral, when Sean had left to go to college, I asked my sister-in-law to take the girls. I thought they needed to get away from all of the commotion and turmoil surrounding our lives, but without them my loneliness intensified. Every night I’d go to the Ritz and relive the horror in a bottle of Jack Da
niels. Being in the place I’d last held her offered me some perverted sense of comfort. Instinct told me that I would learn who’d killed my wife in that bar, and I was right.

  Mad Dog glanced at the clock. 2:00 am. The girls, cuddled on either side, slept soundly. He needed to get up and move. He freed his legs from the blankets and then slid to the foot of the bed. The girls turned but didn’t wake. With great stealth, he rose, retrieved his jeans from the chair, put them on, and then went downstairs.

  In the kitchen, he turned on the coffee maker and sat at the table. One long agonizing week had passed since he had overheard Muck Eye. On impulse, he had wanted to go for Jack that night, but he’d waited and formulated a plan for his revenge. There could be no mistakes. He’d arranged for the girls to spend the weekend with their aunt in Chicago. When they woke, he’d surprise them, calling it a “Christmas shopping trip.” Having been to their aunt’s for Thanksgiving, they might be suspicious, but he’d deal with that. He wanted them gone and safe in case something went wrong. After he put the girls on the train, he’d phone Jack and set up the showdown he’d worked out. The small warehouse he owned in the industrial park would be a perfect meeting place. Sunday right before dawn, it would be deserted. There would be no witnesses when he shot Jack down, exactly as Jack had done to Gina.

  There was, however, a glitch in Mad Dog’s plans that he needed to fix before Sunday. If, God forbid, he ended up in the hereafter, or if Jack’s associates found him out and retaliated, he’d need someone to protect his kids—the girls particularly. He could think of only one person who was tough enough and fearless enough. The question was: would he be willing to take on such a risky proposition.

  CHAPTER twenty-seven

  Mason walked into Fortunate Sons’ Auto Dealership as apprehensive as a man with an IED strapped to his chest and the time running down. He wasn’t surprised that Jack had called and demanded to see him immediately. He must have heard about Muck Eye’s little slip of the tongue, and Jack would want to eradicate any witnesses. Mason fell into that category.

  Going down the corridor to Jack’s office, Mason ran through his mental check list: Glock stowed in shoulder holster; boot knife tucked in sheath of right boot; Taurus 92 stuffed in waistband; and brass knuckles in jacket pocket. That night he might be bunking with the devil, but Jack would be in the next room.

  Mason stood at the office door, took a deep breath, and then exhaled. A calm-looking exterior, his physiology betrayed him with the perspiration that trickled down the back of his neck and the dryness in his throat. He rapped on the door and then walked in.

  At once, Mason spotted Doc Khoury, president of the Long Riders, standing near the window facing Park Street. Mason swallowed. Jack rose from behind his large desk and smiled his familiar slick smile.

  “I believe you two already know each other,” Jack said as he swept out his hand.

  “Yeah, we do.” Mason’s even tone hid his surprise. He offered his hand to Doc. “I didn’t know you knew Jack.”

  Doc eyed Mason. “Jack and I go way back.”

  Snubbing Mason’s offered hand, Doc pulled a pack of Camels from his vest pocket and lit one.

  Mason grinned and then made himself comfortable in one of the big leather chairs.

  “What’s going on, Jack? Why the urgency?”

  Jack sat down and folded his hands in front of him. He reminded Mason of a politician who got caught with his hands in the cookie jar and was asking to be forgiven.

  “It’s come to my attention, Rambo, that a few nights ago when you and Muck Eye were at the Ritz, Muck Eye was overheard spreading malicious gossip. A hang around for the Long Riders happened to be in the bar and heard Muck Eye tell you about a murder that took place there. Is that true?”

  You know it’s true, you cowardly piece of shit! Mason ranted inwardly with an impassive exterior. If Mason could get away with it, he’d kill the bastard right then, but he’d wait.

  “I remember Muck Eye being pretty high that night,” Mason said, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. “If Muck Eye did mention something about a murder, I’m sure anyone who heard would consider it bullshit.”

  “On the contrary, Rambo, your good friend Mad Dog took it quite seriously. Right before I summoned you, he called. I’m supposed to meet him at his warehouse. He was quite explicit. I’m to be there Sunday morning right before dawn.”

  Jack slumped back and steepled his fingers. His cold dark eyes drilled Mason. “He assured me he wouldn’t contact the police.”

  Mason crossed his legs for easy access to his boot knife before answering.

  “No biker worth his salt would involve the police in personal business, especially Mad Dog. Not after what he went through. He’s going to take care of this on his own. Mad Dog’s honest. When the two of you meet, he’ll be alone.”

  Mason leaned forward.

  “So what’s this got to do with me, Jack? You want me to call Mad Dog off?”

  “No, Rambo.”

  Jack picked up a pen. He clicked the end on a pad of paper; his dark eyes narrowed.

  “I want you to go with me and take out Mad Dog. You see, Doc doesn’t entirely trust you.”

  Jack looked over at the window then back to Mason.

  “Doc sent a hang around to the Ritz to keep an eye on you. He heard a nasty rumor that you’ve been voted bad out from Sons of Thunder because you’re a snitch.”

  Mason glanced at Doc, who leaned against the window sill smoking another cigarette. The grisly man glared back and then lifted his head and blew smoke.

  “If the rumor is true—’’

  Mason turned his attention to Jack.

  “If you’ve had a falling out with the brothers…. ” Jack said, relaxing into the chair, clasping his hands behind his head. His eyebrows rose. “A man like you believes an eye for eye…. I’m providing you the perfect opportunity to even the score, and I’ll sweeten the pot with five hundred thousand for a job well done.”

  Jack leaned forward, rested his elbows on the desk, and waited.

  Mason’s heart beat so furiously that he thought Jack and Doc could hear it. He dropped his right leg and wiped his clammy palms over his thighs.

  “Five hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money,” Mason said.

  “Yes, it is, Rambo. And if you do accept and take care of this unpleasant business, Doc’s willing to offer you a place in the Long Riders. Isn’t that right?”

  Jack looked over at Doc.

  Mason followed his gaze.

  Doc nodded.

  The room fell silent. Mason relaxed into the chair, rubbing his right fist into his left palm. He looked hard into Jack’s deceitful face. If he refused the offer, Mason was quite sure Doc would be escorting him out. He probably had some of the boys on standby, and they’d take Mason somewhere where nobody would find his body for a long, long time, if at all. Muck Eye’s haunting words about knowing too much roared through his consciousness. He wondered if Jack had already disposed of Muck Eye. Sweat wet his neck. Mason leaned forward.

  “I want half now and half when the job is done.”

  Jack smiled, got up, and then walked over to a large painting on the opposite wall. He pulled it back, revealing a safe. He worked the combination and then swung open the safe’s door. Pulling out a manila envelope, Jack tossed it on the desk.

  “There you are, Rambo. Two hundred and fifty grand.”

  Mason struggled to keep his hands from trembling as he opened the heinous bribe. He stared at the large amount of bills and then folded the envelope into the inner pocket of his jacket.

  “Aren’t you going to count it?” Jack asked, closing the safe and replacing the picture.

  “Why?” Mason grinned, rising from the chair. “If it’s not all there, Mad Dog will be the least of your worries.”

  Jack cocked his head.

  Mason sauntered over to the window and stood before Doc. With the swiftness of an attacker slitting his victim’s throat, Mason slammed h
is fist into Doc’s neck. The man fell back, gasping for air. Mason snatched the Taurus from Doc’s waistband and rammed the barrel into Doc’s gaping mouth.

  “The next time you accuse me of being a snitch, my friend, I’m going to rip your fucking tongue out of your ugly face,” Mason snarled. “Understand, mother fucker?”

  Doc nodded. Sweat dribbled down his bushy sideburns.

  “Good.”

  Mason stuffed the gun back in Doc’s waistband. He heard Jack laugh. Bewildered, Mason turned in Jack’s direction. Sitting at his desk, Jack’s demented grin reminded Mason of the iconic Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland. He speculated on the degree of Jack’s insanity and then turned away. Mason walked to the door and then turned to face the men. Doc’s stunned expression made Mason confident. “Sunday then… I’ll be there.”

  He walked out.

  Climbing into his truck, he took a deep breath to slow down his racing pulse and quell his nausea. He patted the envelope of money in his jacket. Mad Dog had made his move. It was all coming together, but not the way he’d anticipated.

  ***

  Sitting at her kitchen table, Ellen sipped her tea. She should get back outside and finish shoveling the driveway now that she’d finally made the call to the clinic. She and JD had only gotten half of the shoveling done when he started whining about being hungry. After fixing lunch, she’d made the appointment. In a few days, she would no longer be carrying Mason Hackett’s offspring.

  Ellen reached over and picked up the photograph of Mason that Sam had given her on Thanksgiving. That night, when everyone had gone to bed, Ellen had confided in her baby sister about the pregnancy. Sam had adamantly advised Ellen to tell Mason, but Ellen had known she’d never be strong enough to do it. If she told him, it might spark hope within her that this life they created out of their passion—their love—could fill the void that had erupted the second she had walked away from him. Tears, a constant companion, welled and then dripped down her cheeks. She stared at the photo. For Mason’s part, it hadn’t been love at all. Maybe lust, but not love.